Blindsided
by A. E. Stover
Summary: One week in, and the whole school was suddenly loco for some Asian twink. He was 'polite,' he was 'considerate,' he could do jump shots, he did your calculus homework, he rode a real motorcycle— In a few days, someone could probably tell the whole school that his tears could cure cancer and nobody would even question it. And Lance can't stand him.
1. Game Changer

_**x-posted from AO3**_

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 **GAME CHANGER**

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Lance couldn't _stand_ him.

One week in, and the whole school was suddenly _loco_ for some Asian twink. He was 'polite,' he was 'considerate,' he could do jump shots, he did your calculus homework, he rode a _real_ motorcycle, he once helped Mrs. Arroyo to her car after school— In a few days, someone could probably tell the whole school that his tears could cure cancer and nobody would even question it.

"Uh, no, Lance, people would definitely question that."

"Yeeah, and isn't that, like, a Chuck Norris joke?"

And Lance couldn't _stand_ it. He also couldn't see how this new kid had the entire school wrapped around his little finger.

Keith Kogane. That was his name— just that. There wasn't much to take away from it. Nothing at all like Lance Christian Ruiz-Mendoza Castillo, which carried generations of history and political significance. Hell, even Vance Warner had a better ring, and the guy was nothing but a rich, white jock.

And speaking of Vance Warner…

How the hell did Keith manage to rub elbows with that guy? The guy was your classic case of homophobic whiteboi shithead. What, did the kid sell part of his soul? He must have, if even Kayla Parker bothered to smile his way during P. E.

"I thought you _liked_ Kayla."

Lance scowled. "That's exactly my problem, Hunk. How does a random nobody get to see Kayla smile, when I've had to work three months for it?"

Hunk, his precious childhood friend whose current naïveté made him all the more precious, just shrugged and took a large bite of his sandwich. "Uh, maybe 'cause you threw up in her locker in eighth grade?"

"That aside," said the girl immediately to Hunk's left, "you can't honestly be in the mindset that a girl owes a guy her attention _just_ because he 'works so hard' to get it."

Lance's eyebrows shot up. "Whoa, Pidge. That was _not_ what I meant."

"Well, it sure sounded that way," said Pidge. The look she was giving him right now would send his mamá running for her talismans and yell at him about "mal de ojo," the evil eye.

Lance struggled to find the right way to apologize. "Sorry! It's just— It's _Keith!_ I just can't stand him."

Pidge rolled her eyes. "So you've said all week."

She didn't say anything else after that, so Lance deemed it safe to consider the issue discussed, resolved, and _dropped_. Which was great, because there was another issue currently at hand that needed the same treatment — KEITH FUCKING KOGANE.

Call it what you want — obsession, jealousy, territorial aggression, _whatever_ — but Lance was fucking _on_ to something devastatingly _real_.

If the whole school was just oh so head over heels in love with this boy, then why was this fucker always sitting by himself in the cafeteria? _Hmmm?_

"Maybe he's shy."

"Probably. He hasn't been the one to initiate any conversations, right?"

"Yeah, Shay says he's nice but doesn't talk much."

"He probably realized that the entire school is populated by morons. I heard he's some kind of genius."

 _"Or,"_ Lance interrupted his friends with a fist banging the table, making them jump. "He's plotting something _big._ " He pointed dramatically across the cafeteria while making sure that Hunk, who sat across from him, was hiding him in plain sight. "Look! He's talking to Nyma Chandra. She's the girl who won the blue ribbon in the science fair this year."

Pidge moaned miserably, dumping her face into her hands. "Don't remind me. I just _had_ to get the flu that week." Hunk gave her back a consoling pat.

"Just _look_ , will you?" Lance hissed, eyes already pinned on the way Nyma was saying something that actually made Keith crack a smile.

"I'd say it's Nyma who's doing the talking. Keith isn't really saying much."

"Yeah, he's just nodding his head and being…"

"Polite," Pidge finished.

Lance almost screamed. Could they not _see_ the way the new kid was wooing everyone away? What was with everyone and their infatuation with this total stranger? It wasn't as if he was anything special or something. He was just a normal kid, with normal kid manners, and normal kid attitude—

Something in his head clicked, and Lance was picking up a sporkful of cafeteria spaghetti from some kid's tray behind him before he could stop himself.

"What are you doing?!" Pidge hissed, eyes getting real wide at the way he was bending back the spork and dripping sauce on his arm. She gave a little gasp. "You _totally_ forgot this morning, didn't you?! That's why you've been off all day!"

Hunk tried to reason with him. "Dude, come on, don't do this. Lance, he hasn't done anything to you…"

 _That_ did it.

"Yes. He. _HAS!"_

His thumb let go. Everybody at the table watched the glob of red tomato sauce shoot past Hunk's shoulder and sail towards Keith.

And hit Nyma instead.

Poor Nyma was so startled, she screamed and tossed her tray of food into the air. It dropped to the floor in a messy splash, which made Jenna Callaway slip and fall, which made Darrell White lunge forward to catch her, forgetting about the can of soda in his hand and tossing it to the side…

To splash Coke all over the back of Keith Kogane's red and white jacket.

Lance _felt_ the way blood drained from his face. "…Shit."

The entire cafeteria fell silent. Then, noise roared back into the vacuum. A chorus of " _OHHHHHHHH_ "s and a collection of hooting laughter ripped the controlled chaos of the school lunchroom like it was wet tissue paper. In the midst of this chaos, Lance tossed the plastic spork under the table and wiped the sauce on his arm onto his jeans.

"Look at this! This is _your_ fault," Pidge stage-whispered.

" _No_ , it's _not,"_ Lance insisted through clenched teeth, watching Keith slowly stand up. Lance watched Keith flip off his jacket and toss it on the table. What the hell was he gonna do?

Keith went up to Nyma, a perfect look of concern on his face as he put a hand on the kid's shoulder and spoke to her. After a moment, Nyma nodded her head, and Keith stared at the red splatter of sauce on the back of Nyma's shirt.

Time slowed down. Lance felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he saw Keith's eyes trail along an invisible path in the air that weaved through three cafeteria tables and ended with—

Lance ducked his head, blood rushing in his ears as he hid behind Hunk. "Oh my god."

"He… calculated the trajectory of the sauce," Pidge whispered.

"Shut _up_ ," Lance hissed at her, "you're gonna give me away!"

He was interrupted by a sound like thunder and an angry, feral cry.

Lance learned two things that afternoon:

One, Keith Kogane was a ninja.

Two, Keith Kogane's "normal kid attitude" was the equivalent of a fucking time bomb.

The guy had actually leaped over a table to get to Lance faster, launching himself up by jumping off the bench. One moment he was in the air. In the next, he was crash-landing to the ground with Lance underneath.

As caught off guard as he was, his mamá didn't raise him to be no wuss. He was a fighter, and he knew how to defend himself.

Plus, the whole school was watching them, so…

"Yeeaaaah! Fuck 'im up, Keith!"

"Lance, man, you got this!"

"Somebody just FIGHT already!"

"Yeah! Fight! _Fight!—"_

 _"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"_

Either through sheer luck or adrenaline-powered reflexes, Lance somehow managed to stop the fist aimed for his face. His hand burned like he'd just caught one of Mr. Brodsky's rockets. Lance caught the look in Keith's eyes and felt his stomach flip because _whoa_ , this dude was _crazy_.

So he said so.

"What the hell are you _doing_ , you _psycho?!"_

The look in Keith's eyes turned wild. "What the hell am _I_ doing? What the hell are _you_ doing?! You've been on my back all week, ever since I got here! You got some kind of problem with me? Quit chasing tail like a little bitch and get to my face!"

At that particular euphemism, Lance sputtered. "Ch-chasing tail—?! I'm not into you like that!"

Keith's wild look turned into a baffled glare. "What're you _talking_ about?! I meant being petty behind my back!"

Lance grit his teeth. "Well, sorry for not understanding, _Keith_. Kinda hard when I'm hella gay and I've got such a huge dick in my face!"

Keith punched him. _Hard._

 _"OOHHHHHH!"_

 _"GET HIM BACK, LANCE!"_

Pain flared on the side of his face. Lance could taste blood. If this were any other day, maybe that would've brought him back to reality, put him in check, and _maybe_ realize just how out of control this whole thing had become. But the crowd was roaring in his ears like the blood pumping through his body, and Lance had had no brakes in his head since his mistake that morning.

So Lance pulled his chin down to the hand fisted in the front of his shirt, and bit it.

Keith wrenched his hand away with a pained shout. "Did— Did you just _bite_ me?!"

"Oh, I can do a lot more than just bite!"

Taking advantage of the shock, Lance sat up and headbutted Keith in the chest, wrestling the other boy to the ground. Now he was the one on top, and Keith looked like a snarling beast caught in a snare trap. Hand clenched in a tight fist, Lance reeled back his arm.

A strong, familiar hold looped under Lance's arms and yanked him right off Keith. He kicked and writhed but couldn't break free. "Wha— Let me go!"

Who was this guy?! What right did this fucker have to think that he could _dare_ pull him away from this fight—

It was Hunk.

"That's enough, Lance!"

Hunk looked _and_ sounded angry, a rarity, which usually meant that Lance had fucked up somewhere.

"What were you thinking, Lance?!" Hunk's booming voice resounded loudly in his head. Lance felt the beginnings of a headache thudding against his skull. "You let this get way out of control!"

Lance shoved him away. "Are you kidding me?! What about the ninja wannabe over there? He leaped over the table to get at me!"

"None of this would have happened," Pidge shouted fiercely, "if you just learned to let things go!" She was kneeling next to Keith, helping him up with a gentle touch to his shoulder.

What was she doing? Lance let his anger spit bitter venom through his mouth. "Oh, so you're taking his side, now? You know what? Fine, take his side, then. You always thought he was great from day one anyway."

Pidge snapped her head up, and Lance saw a stormy look on her face usually reserved for the asshats that insisted she was a boy.

"There are no _sides_ , Lance!" Pidge's eyes were getting watery, and Lance felt something like a sharp kick in his heart. "Why can't you get that through your head?!"

Lance didn't say anything. In his silence, he was growing aware to the murmurs and eyes of the students who'd crowded around them. When he saw a few phones out, dread started filling up his insides like a blast of water chugging into an empty tank.

Then he looked at Keith.

He was glaring at some spot in the ground, jaw tight around his face, his shoulders and chest heaving with short, shallow breaths. His hands were balled at his sides, and he refused to pick his head up even when Pidge spoke to him.

It was with numb shock that Lance found a sense of déjà vu in such an angry display. He recognized it, he knew what it was, which was exactly the reason why Lance was so confused.

Keith was angry at himself.

But why?

It was to this scene that the assistant principal and one of the school counselors arrived. The doors to the cafeteria burst open, the two adults storming in like EMT officers approaching an unconscious victim. Their hand walkies buzzed with static and frantic voices.

The assistant principal took one look at Lance, brows furrowed deeply and mouth in a thin, thin line. Lance felt his heart sink into his stomach. Oh, no. He knew what that look meant.

Then the assistant principal barked out orders to everyone standing dumbly around them. "I need all students to get back to their seats. This is ridiculous! We're holding an assembly immediately after lunch to talk about the vision of our school as a _community_ and a _family_. This has been too good of a year for us to mess up now. I will _not_ let anyone break down our school this way."

Finally, the assistant principal looked at him. "Lance, go with Mr. Altena. Keith, you're coming with me."

As the assistant principal led Keith out of the cafeteria, students trickled back to their seats. Lance watched numbly as his two best friends followed the other students and begin to relocate to another table.

He contemplated shouting an apology at their retreating backs, when a shadow came over him.

One of the school counselors, a foppish-looking man in his late fifties with a full head of hair and a handsome moustache, immediately offered his hand to Lance with a wry twist to his mouth.

"Didn't think I'd get to see you again this week, Lance."

Lance gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "Don't start, Coran."

Coran just laughed.

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"So, let me see if I got this."

By this point of the conversation, Lance was so slouched in his chair that the backrest of the chair dug into the back of his head. It wasn't a painful sensation, but it certainly was uncomfortable.

What _was_ painful was the fact that he was sitting in a cramped office with the school's "Crisis Regulation and De-Escalation Counselor" for the second time this week, talking about his feelings for the _second time_ this week, and having to listen to it being parroted back to him _for the second time this week._

Did he mention that he was here for _the second time this week_ _?_

"So this week, you've been noticing how many students were talking about Keith in an overtly positive manner. You also noticed that some of the students in particular, Kayla, whom you have tried to be friendly with, immediately opened up to Keith. And whenever you brought up the topic with your friends, you feel they haven't supported you or that they would take Keith's perspective on things. So, you feel as if he's taking your friends away from you, just like your spot on the Galaxy Garrison trip you mentioned earlier. Does this seem right?"

Lance had been counting the number of unsharpened pencils in the cup on Coran's desk when the question came. "Sure." He started counting again. _Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen…_

"Let's talk about the Galaxy Garrison trip. You really sounded quite angry when you told me…"

Lance knew, in the back of his head, that he was being as petty and selfish as a seventh grader throwing a full blown tantrum over creased Jordans. But that was in the _back_ of his head. At the front and foremost part was everything that had transpired this past week: everything Lance felt the world had done him wrong, all the shit the universe heaped onto him since he was ten.

Kayla, he could forget about. He didn't even know her that well.

Pidge and Hunk? Well… when it came to Hunk, they would talk it over later, as always. Lance wasn't sure about Pidge, though. As much as he annoyed her, she'd never been as mad at him as she was today. Lance really didn't know what to do, but he knew it was gonna be okay. They were his best friends.

The real crusher was the trip. It wasn't just any trip. It was _the_ trip: a seven-day, six night trip to Arizona's Black Mesa for fifteen students to the Galaxy Garrison's headquarters.

That trip was all he'd ever worked for. That trip was what kept him afloat. He _needed_ to get on that trip. It was his one shot into being an astro-explorer. The Garrison recruited early, and everyone knew 18 was the last chance to get in if you wanted to be a fighter-pilot.

And then some mullet boy from the Eighties came and elbowed his way right onto the last spot on the trip.

"What was that?"

Lance shot up in his seat. "Nothing! I, uh, just. I like David Bowie. He's really cool."

Coran arched a brow. "Let's try to stay focused on what's going on with you, okay?

Lance sighed, sinking in his chair. He listened to half of what Coran was saying before his attention went back to the pencils. Holy _shit_ , were there a lot of them. _Twenty eight… Twenty nine… Thirty… Thirty-one…_ Thirty-one! There were thirty-one unsharpened pencils in the cup on Coran's desk.

…Why did Coran have so many unsharpened pencils on his desk? The guy used a blue fountain pen to write with, and Lance was pretty sure everything was logged onto a database online. What did he need all those pencils for?

"—seems to be the main trigger. Can you tell me what you were doing before the fight began?"

Lance scoffed, raising an arm and reaching out for one of the unsharpened pencils in Coran's cup. "Don't wanna," he muttered, twirling the pencil around his fingers.

"That's all right," said Coran, leaning back in his seat. "Take your time."

Lance thought his ears were broken. Did he hear correctly? Did Coran really say that to him right now? Take his time? _FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS WEEK?!_

Lance steeled himself with a lungful of air and a silent mantra of _behave yourself, remember what Hunk told you._ "Coran, no offense, but this is a waste of time! I already had a session with you two days ago! Why do we have to do this again?" The pencil in his fingers snapped. Lance froze. "Uh, sorry," he quickly said, putting the two broken halves on the desk. He snuck a peek at Coran's face.

It was as patient as it always was.

"You sound frustrated," Coran just said.

Lance groaned, slouching into the chair. "Oh my _god."_

"It's okay to be frustrated."

Lance rolled his eyes. He'd spoken with Coran for so long, he knew this whole counseling routine down cold. "I _know_ it's okay to be frustrated. Okay? I know that. Next you're gonna ask if I think what I did was 'appropriate for an academic environment.' My answer to that is a flat out no, by the way. Then, you're gonna ask me what I could have done differently—"

Here, Coran was quick to jump in. "What _could_ you have done differently?"

"Nothing! There's _nothing_ I could have done differently because there's nothing I _would_ have done differently!"

"You could have ignored him."

Lance clenched his jaw. "I'm not gonna sit on my ass and let eighth grade happen all over again! I fucked up once with Vance, and I am _not_ letting it happen again!"

The office was awfully quiet after that. Lance could hear his own heart thudding in his ears, and heard the little sigh that escaped his counselor's mouth. Coran was frowning, the lines of his lips disappearing completely underneath his bushy moustache — the only hint that his patience was starting to wear down.

And Lance felt bad. Coran had been with him since day one, like "BSB" time — Before Series Began. He was someone Lance trusted in, could actually confide in— Hell, Lance loved the guy, he was great! He was always willing to listen to him, and wasn't afraid to verbally cuff him when he was out of line. So to see that patience wearing down, Lance felt… He felt like he'd _failed_ , somewhere. And he knew where he'd gone wrong, he just didn't want to admit it. Because he didn't want to just give up and let things go. He wanted to fight, because this time he knew how. And he wasn't _ever_ going to back down to anyone ever again.

High school hasn't been so bad, but middle school was hell, you know?

A sound like someone clearing their throat made him whirl around.

 _Shit,_ went Lance's head. It was the Principal.

He didn't look happy.

"I see that the crisis intervention counseling isn't working as well as we'd hoped. Perhaps a call home is in order."

With just those words, Lance saw his life flashing before his eyes.

Ohhhhh, no. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —

He was a dead, dead man.

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The Principal was a young, energetic man in his thirties named Matteo Alvarez. He was a cool guy when he wasn't pissed off. Going by that genius observation, if you took into consideration the fact that the man had to be Top Dog for a school swarming with kids from sixth grade all the way to twelfth grade, it meant that Principal Alvarez was a cool guy, like, 30% of the time.

Right then, though, Top Dog wasn't "pissed off", but he wasn't exactly cool in Lance's book, either. Because this giant fop of a man was the reason his big sister Constanza was sitting right next to him.

"All of that in one day?" Constanza asked once she was filled in with the day's events. Her voice was a loud boom in the small office, her thick Cuban accent rolling over each sound the way waves rolled together to make one rhythm. "Lance, mijo, did you forget to take the pills?"

CUE INTERNAL SCREAMING. Lance tried to avoid the topic.

"Mami, you speak Spanish, like, ninety-nine percent of the time, and you decide to say _that_ in English?!"

Constanza clicked her tongue. "Callate mijo, te las tomaste o no?"

"You can't 'mijo' me and tell me to shut up in one breath!"

Constanza's eyes became daggers. "I 'mijo' you and tell you 'shut up' in anything! Te las tomaste o no?!"

Lance didn't say anything. Because, and to be perfectly honest here, he was afraid to.

 _"Lance!"_

Lance swallowed. "Well, no, but—"

"Ay, mijo, no te puedo creer! _Thinking_ , Lance, _thinking!_ You have a good head, you have to be using it! Ay, dios mío, qué voy a hacer contigo?"

"Lo siento, mami."

"Lo siento?! Como que 'lo siento'?! Ay, solo espera hasta llegar a gabeto." Constanza tossed her thick, black hair over one shoulder and crossed her legs as she muttered to herself. "Telling me 'I'm sorry' after such a _horrible_ things you have done. _Che!"_

Lance kept a wary eye on the way one of her feet bounced up and down. It was one of her anger ticks, like the tongue-clicking and hair-tossing thing she did. Lance was afraid the slipper on her foot would somehow fly right off and slap him in the face.

Just then, the door to the Principal's office opened.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get here earlier," spoke a voice that was _way_ too young to be a "dad" but had "dad" tones in each and every syllable. "I was lecturing when I got your call."

Curiosity peaked, Lance turned his head to see what the guy looked like.

And got an eyeful of crotch.

Lance whipped his head back around, digging his nails into knees and screaming internally because _why_ dear god _why_ — _WHAT WERE THE CHANCES?!_

"Is everything alright? What happened?" The man, on whom Lance would bet money was not a day older than twenty-five, looked from the Principal, to Lance, to Constanza, and then finally at Keith, who'd just settled in the last chair in the office when the man had finished looking at every other person in the room.

Keith was looking at the man the way Lance imagined you'd look at a peacock that escaped from its pen and was trying to steal your lunch. "What?"

The man narrowed his eyes sternly and crossed his arms. "What did you do?"

Lance watched something close to discomfort flicker on Keith's face. Three beats of silence passed. Then—

"I… I jumped the kid sitting over there and we fought."

The man exploded. "You _what?_ You just got to this school! It's only been a week!"

Then, the man suddenly launched into a tirade in a language Lance could only describe as "anime in real life." It lasted for something like five minutes, during which Lance picked at the frayed string on the hem of his shirt until his sister slapped his hand away with a click of her tongue. Man, he _never_ got to get away with anything.

Finally, when the man was done, Lance heard Keith speak in the smallest voice Lance could ever imagine.

"I'm sorry, Shiro."

Lance looked at Keith. Like, really _looked_ at him. Somewhere in that school-swooning, friend-stealing, trip-spot-swiping asshole, there was a kid who once fought the world and lost. A kid like Lance.

He wanted to know that kid.

"Sorry?! Did you just _forget_ what could happen if you—" The man stopped, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Then he sat back in his chair. "We'll talk about it at home." A pause. "And you're grounded for a week. With _no_ biking privileges."

"…I know."

A few beats of silence settled uncomfortably in the room.

"Alright, then," the Principal sighed, "I guess I should inform you of the consequences of our school's district. In-school suspension is the requested punishment to fighting in all New York City public schools. Keith, because this is your first incident at this school and because I know you've been working very hard to get here, I will only be giving you one day's suspension."

It was Shiro who responded. "Understood. Thank you, sir."

Principal Alvarez sighed again, now turning to Lance. One look from the man's tired expression was all he needed to know where this was going.

Lance slouched in his seat. "Yeah, I know, one day's suspension, don't ever fight again, I got it."

"Lance," his sister whispered harshly as she pinched his arm.

 _"Ay!_ Hey!"

The Principal frowned. "I'm going to make it clear to you this time, that this is your _last_ chance, Lance."

At that, Lance sat straighter. Because _damn_ , coming from Mr. Alvarez, that was…

"Don't make me regret it."

Lance swallowed. He nodded.

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* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS:**

* * *

 **Callate mijo, te las tomaste o no?**  
 _Shut up sweetie, did you take them [the pills] or not?_

 **Te las tomaste o no?!"**  
 _Did you take them [the pills] or not?_

 **Ay, no te puedo creer!**  
 _Oh, sweetie, I can't believe you!_

 **Ay, dios mío, qué voy a hacer contigo?**  
 _Oh my god, what am I gonna do with you?_

 **Lo siento, mami.**  
 _I'm sorry, "sis"._ "Mami" is a term of endearment reserved for women. Lance calls his sister "mami" because, to him, she is his "second mom."

 **Lo siento?! Como que 'lo siento'?! Ay, solo espera hasta llegar a gabeto.**  
 _I'm sorry?! What do you mean "I'm sorry"?! Oh, you just wait until we get home._


	2. Kuleana

It was a bright and early Friday morning when one of his sisters committed a grave Castillo family sin.

"Ugh, lechón asado _again?_ Gross. No thanks."

Lance barely bat an eyelash when Constanza threw down the metal spatula onto the counter with a loud clang.

"Ohhh," Constanza said, her voice slinking up and down like she'd eureka'd onto something, "I seeing you not liking my lunches? How about you making your own lunches from now on? And how about you also making your own desayuno y cena too?!"

Constanza's voice had started off soft and rapidly rose in volume as she got to the end.

In response to this, Mia wrinkled her nose and raised an eyebrow. Then, god bless her sweet, eleven-year-old soul, she _rolled her eyes._ "Chill, I'll just buy some chips or something. Don't get all huffy with me."

Oooo _kay_ , here was his time to NOT GET INVOLVED. Time to look busy.

Lance turned away from the counter and went to the stove-top to flip the eggs and bacon Constanza had abandoned. Then he opened the lid to the crock pot and looked for the ladle he was using to scoop out some of the pork. Why Constanza was keeping grilled meat in a crock pot was something he didn't want to ask out loud.

A sound like something soft being thrown on the counter made Lance look behind him. Oh. It was just the sandwich he'd wrapped in foil.

"Esta loco?!" Constanza screamed. "There is food here, costs less than one dollar, and you going and wasting two dollars for some mierda como 'chips or something'?! _Lance!"_

Lance jumped, splashing some sauce onto the stove top. He whirled around, eyes wide. The hell did he do now?!

"Tell Mia to take the sandwich!"

Uhhhhh… _Huh?!_

What, did he have access to a switch that made Mia obey commands? When did _that_ happen? Where was the news flash? He did _not_ receive any memos about that.

So, because he was helping her this morning, and because his age put him next in line for the title of "family mom," and _because_ he was _ninety-nine percent_ _sure_ Constanza was too angry at Mia to get upset at him, Lance delivered his best "what the fuck" look at her. But when he turned and looked at her, he saw, quivering behind her angry façade, waves of frustration because she knew she wasn't mamá. She was just Constanza. And then he looked at Mia, who was just staring at her hot pink nails with her trademark _"oooh, I'm too cool"_ look on her face and just… Probably wanting mamá.

Lance dropped the ladle in the crock pot and sighed. What the hell was he supposed to do? He didn't know how to take care of this. He didn't even know how to take care of himself.

 _What would Emilio do?_ he wondered in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Probably this.

Lance crossed his arms, leaned back against the stovetop (not by the one that was lit, he learned that the hard way) and said in the most impassive tone he could muster: "Mia. Take the sandwich. And put it in your bag. _Now."_

And WOW, slap his ass and call him Batman, cause all Mia did was scowl, slap her hand on the sandwich, and toss it in her schoolbag. Lance _couldn't believe that worked._ Haha, he was gonna be talking in deadpan _all_ day, _every_ day from now on 'til the end of time! Whooooo!

…Pfft. Yeah right.

Crisis averted, Constanza went back to the eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove and Lance resumed making the last lunch. This one was for Diego, so he made sure to ladle less than he'd had for Sophia and Mia.

As he was putting the top bun over the pork, Constanza reached over and squeezed his arm. Confused, Lance looked up.

She just smiled at him, eyes warm and light, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Gracias, mijo. You looking and sounding just like papá every day."

Constanza went back to making breakfast.

…Okay, maybe he _should_ practice the "Emilio voice" a little more.

To return her small gesture of love, Lance bumped his hip against her's with a grin. "Estas diciendo que soy guapo?" When Constanza gave him a dry look and rolled her eyes, he just laughed.

The mood in their small kitchen lifted, and Lance hummed to himself as he moved Diego's sandwich to the counter to wrap it up in foil.

"Ugh, I hate you," Mia growled, throwing her bag over her shoulder. She started fixing the million bracelets jangling around on her arm while Sophia brushed Mia's hair back with a concentrated look on her face. "Because of you, now I'm gonna smell like barbequed meat in front of Ben."

Lance froze in the middle of tearing a sheet of aluminum foil. Behind him, Constanza stood at the counter, holding a plate of eggs and bacon she was about to pass to Rodrigo. Rodrigo just stood there looking hungry.

He and Constanza just stared quietly at Mia. A million things zoomed through Lance's head. Then—

"Who the _hell_ is _Ben?"_ "Quién es Ben?"

Mia's face was bright red. "Mybusishere. Gottago." She grabbed Sophia's hand and ran out of the kitchen.

Sophia turned around to grin at them, silently raising her pinky and wiggling it.

Mia gasped and slapped Sophia's hand down. "We're _twins!_ We're supposed to have each other's backs!" she cried over the peal of laughter coming from Sophia.

The two of them were out the door before anyone could stop them.

Lance and Constanza just looked at each other. Then, a tiny hand slapped onto the top of the counter. With a grunt, Diego pulled himself up to hang over the edge. There was a cheeky little grin on his face as he pulled on Constanza's sleeve.

Lance watched his big sister arch an eyebrow and give the littlest Castillo a blank look. She passed the plate of food to Rodrigo first before leaning on the counter, chin on her hand, and smiling at the family's spoiled nine-year-old.

"Di- _e-_ go," she sing-songed, poking his nose with a finger and making him giggle, "you knowing something about this, yes?"

Still smiling, Diego leaned further over the counter and planted a sweet kiss on Constanza's nose, making her smile for real.

Lance was smiling at him, too. Sure, Diego could scream, kick, and protest all the way down the hall before his bath, but damn, Lance had to give credit where credit was due. Diego was one cute little bugger.

And Diego said in that cute little voice of his: "Si me das candy, te diré quién es Ben."

Lance dropped his smile. Wow, kids didn't fuck around these days, do they? They knew an opportunity for candy-trades when they saw it.

"This little mocoso," Constanza growled, leaving the counter to go into the hallway. She came back with a red Starburst pinched between her thumb and index finger, which she promptly deposited into Diego's waiting hand. She crossed her arms and leaned her hip on the counter, watching Diego the way Lance would like to think a hawk looked at a rabbit.

Diego unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth. He sucked on it for a while, before sliding off the counter and landing on the floor. Then he shrugged his little shoulders and said, "I don't know who Ben is."

He _ran_.

Constanza gasped.

"Damn, that kid's fast," Rodrigo said from the kitchen table.

A slippery little fucker, Lance mentally added on, remembering the numerous ways Diego had slipped through his fingers before bedtime the other night.

Constanza slapped Lance sharply on the arm.

His eyes nearly bugged right out of his head. He was pretty damn sure he hadn't said that out loud. "What was _that_ for?! _I_ didn't say anything!" He hoped.

Constanza was stomping out of the kitchen. "Porque estoy enojada y estas junto a mío." She stopped at the doorway and fixed a fierce look on him. "Y come tu desayuno!" she ordered before she ran off, yelling: "Diego! Ven aquí ahora mismo, o te patearé el culo! No tengo tiempo para esto!"

Lance shared a look with Rodrigo for a brief moment. Daaaaamn, women were all _craaaaa_ —

"You better not be thinking what I think you're thinking," chimed the know-it-all in the family from her seat at the table. The fourteen-year-old had been quietly crunching cereal and minding her own business until just now. "Women are _not_ all crazy. _Circumstances_ make people crazy. It's not a testament of gender at all."

 _Hahaha, joke's on you, Alexa,_ Lance wryly thought to himself. I _drive_ myself _crazy._

Lance finished wrapping Diego's sandwich in foil. He packed it neatly in the Batman lunchbox along with a capri sun and a twinkie (shhhh, don't tell Constanza). As he was doing all that, his two remaining siblings were chatting at the kitchen table.

"How come _she_ gets to curse whenever she wants?"

"I'm sorry, but do _you_ want to do everything in the house while mamá is working?"

"…No."

"Then shut up and let her do what she wants, damn."

Lance quickly went through a mental check list. Lunches packed? Done. Breakfast cooked? Yep (thank you, Constanza!) Meds? Already took 'em. Find a way to school?Nnnnnope.

Shit. So close.

That last one was tricky. He hadn't actually taken the bus to school in ages, ever since Hunk fixed up a used wrangler. And considering the fact that Hunk was über pissed at him yesterday, Lance was betting on there being a Hunk no-show this morning. Which was fine. It's okay. Lance was a big boy, he could handle it. He just had to figure out when to leave the house and see if it wasn't too late to leave now.

It was a fan-fucking-tastic joyous commute of forty-five minutes to the magical land of learning from all the way out here in whitesville. Don't get him wrong, the suburbs were great. Quiet, calm, lots of generic Pokémon around. It was just a… just a _little…_ Narrow…? Minded…? Sort of. Kind of.

Okay, Whitesville was bad. At least, for Lance it was.

Alexa and Rodrigo seemed to be fine. Same with Mia and Sophia. Even little mocoso Diego. And Constanza did okay, just like mamá and papá. Of course, it might have to do with the fact that "all of the above" were straight. _Hmmmmmmm._ _Maaaaay_ be. Maybe? Yeah, maybe.

Pfft. Naah, who was he kidding? That was totally the reason why. Duh. Whitesville sucked ass.

And, well, it wasn't actually called "whitesville."

It was called "Whitesboro." **(1)**

Not much of a difference, in Lance's highly professional opinion. College-level thinking, really. It was peer-reviewed, cited, and all that other stuff.

 _Wow_ , he went off on a tangent. Were those meds working? Time was ticking slowly, so yeah, probs yeah. Okay.

The bus. He was looking for bus routes.

But breakfast first.

Lance had joined the table with a banana just in time to see Rodrigo reach over and pull on one of Alexa's earrings.

"Ouch!"

Oh, for the love of— "Guys, cut it out."

"Hey! She _kicked_ me!"

"You're the one who started it," Alexa whined, hand on her earlobe.

"Don't cry. You're a lady, and it's unbecoming— OW!"

"Don't cry. You're a man, and it's unbecoming."

Rodrigo scowled. "Whatever," he muttered. "I'm done with breakfast anyway."

"Stack the dishes in the sink and rinse them off," Lance said automatically after hearing it so many times himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Lance quickly peeled the banana and was enjoying the smooth texture of just plain banana in the morning (yum yum) as he frantically scanned the bus timetable on his phone when Alexa suddenly spoke to him.

"Is that all you're gonna eat?"

"Yeee _ep_."

Okay, so the next bus wasn't coming for another forty-eight minutes, and his first period class started at nine-twenty—

"You're supposed to eat a full meal when you take your pills."

"Not hungry."

—which meant, seeing as how it was half past seven in the morning right now, he would be taking the—

"Lance—"

Lance snapped his head up. "Yo, get off my back. I need to figure something out, damn."

But when he went back to the timetable, all he could focus on was the hollow silence he'd created at the kitchen table. Fuck. Was she crying? Did he make her cry again? Goddamn, it was too early for this.

"I'm just worried about you, Lance."

That… That made him feel like shit. Lance looked up, not at all happy to meet Alexa's sad eyes and worried pinch of her lips. She looked so much like mamá when she was younger that it hurt him even more.

They were supposed to be family. They weren't supposed to be hurting each other like this all the time.

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just." Lance pinched the space between his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Alexa looked quietly into her empty cereal bowl. She pushed herself away from the table, and stood up.

Lance thought, with a heavy heart, that she was gonna sulk away. But she didn't. Instead, she came around the table, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.

"I love you, Lance."

The tenderness of her voice, of her gesture, made his heart melt. "Me too."

It would have been such a perfect, loving moment fit for a family-centered sitcom if it hadn't been for Rodrigo hollering through an open window.

"LAAAAAAANCE! HUNK IS WAAAAAAAAITING FOR YOU!"

Lance blinked, barely noticing when Alexa pulled away.

…

…What?

Just then, his phone buzzed against the table top. Lance grabbed it and looked at his notifications.

Hunk had texted him.

 **Hunkita**

 _im outside_  
 _hope you dont mind_

Lance stared at the message for a while, wondering if he was hallucinating again. He chewed on his banana and continued staring.

Nnnnnope. It was real.

 _Or was it?_ CUE X-FILES MUSIC

If it was real, then, oh my _GOD, Hunk you are my best friend forever now and until infinity, for a million, bajillion years_ —

"Lance? You okay?"

Oh, sweet, sweet Alexa. Of course he was. It wasn't like he was having an internal revelation of how much he loved Hunk right now or anything, _pssssshhhhhh._

Lance finished the rest of his banana and jumped out of his seat to toss the peel in the trash. "Gotta go," he said, smiling broadly and pinching one of Alexa's cheeks. He kissed the other one as compensation, which meant Alexa just endured it all with a scowl. He laughed at her expression, patting her cheek one last time before she chased him off with a playful punch to his arm.

As he rounded out of the kitchen and flew out the front door, he stopped to see Rodrigo sitting at the front step reading a book.

He reached down and ruffled Rodrigo's hair.

"Hey!" Rodrigo reached up to slap his hand away, but Lance bent down and gave him a hug from the side.

"Don't bother Alexa too much, alright?" Lance said in parting, watching Rodrigo roll his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Hey! ¿Dónde está mi beso de despedida?" Rodrigo winked and tapped his cheek with his index finger.

Lance laughed. "See ya, you little mocoso," he said, tapping his foot to Rodrigo's knee.

He practically hopped, skipped, and jumped the rest of the way to the street, stopping just in front of the door to the passenger's side and hesitating, a single question in his ever-present whirlwind of thoughts settling at the forefront of his mind.

Would Hunk still be mad?

…

Probably.

Lance opened the door.

.

.

.

.

.

The Beast was a beat-up Jeep Wrangler that had seen little action and rumbled like the distant roar of a lion. Hunk had put it together over the years, putting in better tires, installing new pumps, fixing up the thermostat and whatnot. All he needed next was a new radio. Right now, the only two stations that worked was some Asian news station on the AM and a Christian gospel station on the FM. So sometimes, they had to improvise to keep themselves entertained. Which usually just consisted of road-style singing and lots of bad jokes. **(2)**

And yeah, sure, they had the aux, but where was the fun in that?

The one thing Lance didn't like about the Beast was its paint job. For some wild reason, Hunk had slathered it in a gaudy yellow from head to toe, with white and black highlights. Blue was the only way to go for a cool ride, if you asked him. But it wasn't his ride, so oh well. There was also an old bumper sticker in the back Pidge had slapped on just for fun that was already faded. Lance had no idea what it was. Hunk refused to tell him and Pidge had just feigned ignorance. **(3)**

They kept the inside of the Beast as clean as they could. There was the occasional burger wrapper or empty Gatorade bottle rolling around in back, but the boys did a pretty great job at keeping the Beast nice and tidy. And the Beast showed her appreciation by being reliable. She was a smooth ride, gliding through the streets like a hot knife slicing into butter. Lance enjoyed watching the suburban houses whizz past, because it was like he was entering part of someone else's world without getting in trouble for it.

Look, there was Mr. Mueller watering his rose garden and arguing with his son right next to the family SUV. And there was Mrs. Hardeman, 83 and still kicking it on the front porch with a book and a shot of vodka. Lance liked her. She was "senior citizen" goals. And there was Julia and Julian, the twin pre-schoolers who always rocked the best Halloween costumes.

He appreciated the ride a lot more when the Beast turned corners and merged into avenues and boulevards, because he knew the school was only fifteen minutes away now. Commuting took forty-five minutes because the bus stayed on a single path and never took shortcuts. The Beast said fuck that and took all the shortcuts.

Lance patted the dashboard of the Beast. _Good girl,_ he told her as they came to their first red light.

Next to the car, right out on the curb waiting to cross, was a guy fixated on his phone with a dog. It was a tiny dog, a chihuahua, and it looked at Lance with a happy loll of its tongue. Lance pressed his nose against the window and bared his teeth. Immediately, the happy loll disappeared behind a snarl. It started to bark. The light turned green, and Lance watched a very confused dog owner pulling back on the leash of a yappy chihuahua. Lance grinned away the speck of guilt in his heart.

He wasn't really a chihuahua person.

"Hey," said Hunk, breaking the silence for the first time since Lance got into the Beast. "Thanks for keeping me company."

…? Uh, what? Lance turned around. "Uh, what?" he repeated what his mind said, because he was just sooo original and eloquent.

Hunk was staring intently at the road. Like a good driver should. But also what a not-Hunk driver would. Hunk joked and looked at Lance and the people sitting behind and laughed, all while driving smooth and straight. It was a miracle. _He_ was a miracle.

And he was also confusing Lance at the moment because why would he say thanks to Lance? Lance should be the one thanking him. The guy didn't have to pick him up after the frightfest of yesterday.

"I didn't think you'd actually come out."

You're kidding me, right? "You're kidding me, right?"

Dammit. He needed to come up with more ways to express shock.

"I, uh. I thought you'd be mad at me."

Lance just stared at Hunk. Was he serious? Like, SERIOUS serious? How could Lance be mad at him? What did Hunk think he did wrong? For helping him? _Hmmm?_

"Hunk, I'm not— I can't get mad at you, man. Like, ever." A pause, as his head rolled out some memories from elementary school. "Well, maybe that one time in the third grade when you broke my fire truck by accident. But we got over that! So, technically, we can get over anything now."

Hearing Hunk laugh made a nice, warming cheer spread in his chest.

"Yeah, Booster was a great fire truck. So sad to see him go." One hand left the wheel to raise solemnly in the air. "A moment of silence, please."

They held the silence reverently.

The truck had been a gift from Emilio— his very _first_ gift. Well. First _real_ gift. He'd gotten a lot of gifts from Emilio before then. Mostly nasty looks and punches and snarls of "callate, you fuck up."

But yeah, Booster had been important to him. He and Hunk had only been friends for a year at the time, and Hunk was still big for his age back then, too. During an incredibly realistic-yet-imaginary fire emergency, Booster had gotten into an unfortunate accident with Yasmin Jacobson's police car, and the crash resulted in devastating injuries for both parties. Worthy of the nine o'clock evening news, hands down.

Lance chuckled, remembering how mad he'd been at something that now seemed so little and insignificant. He remembered how he'd made up with Hunk fairly quickly, and the two had been inseparable ever since.

"Listen," Hunk said aloud, breaking Lance out of nostalgia. "I just wanna apologize. I didn't mean to yell at you like that, or say that you were out of—"

Here, Lance stomped on the proverbial brakes because nope, no way, nuh-uh _._ "Hunk, I _was_ out of control. And you had every right to be mad at me. I was… I was acting crazy—"

"Hey, now, don't use that word—"

"—and I wasn't thinking. You were right. _Are_ right, a hundred percent of the time. I don't know what I'd do without you. Thanks, man, and… I'm sorry."

It was quiet in the car.

Then, Hunk replied in a soft voice. "Same to you, brah." Hunk lifted a fist in his direction. "One in spirit."

"One in heart," Lance finished, bumping his fist against Hunk's.

He could cry, really, seeing the way Hunk's whole face lit up with just that simple gesture. How incredible was this guy, Lance thought to himself, and how lucky was he to call Hunk his friend? _Best_ friend. Bros. His other half. Lance wouldn't be the person he was today without him. Wouldn't have met Pidge, either, and probably would've stayed miserable all through that hell in eighth grade. Who knows what he could have done?

Hunk was his rock, his fortress. When the going got tough, Hunk got going. Lance learned so much from him, from just being around him and listening to him. Had no idea where Hunk got all this knowledge from, but it was a gold mine of emotional wisdom. Hunk may be an only child, but he was a better brother than Lance ever was to his five younger brothers and sisters. His entire family loved Hunk— Hell, _Emilio_ had said outright that he'd choose Hunk over him any day, back when they hated each other.

Really. What would he do without Hunk?

"So… Wanna tell me why you flung spaghetti across the cafeteria the other day?"

I mean, _really_. What _would_ he do without Hunk? _Uhhhggggggggghhhhhhhh—_

Lance thought the noise coming out of his mouth was a pretty darn good impression of a dying whale. And also an accurate portrayal of his current feelings. Which pretty much was just "FUCK SHIT NOPE NUH-UH NAH CHIIIIILL."

Lance pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. "Hunk, can we just… _never_ talk about that again?"

"Kuleana, Lance. Have some responsibility."

Lance did his best to look like he was sitting on a pile of warm, stinking shit.

Hunk wasn't deterred. "Tell me why you thought it was a good idea."

"No."

"Why not? 'Cause it sounds stupid now?"

"…Yes."

Hunk had the audacity to chuckle. "And that's exactly why I'm making you say it out loud. Sometimes, there's no better teacher than the memories of when you stuck your own foot in your mouth."

"Ugh, oh my god, Hunk. C'mon, man! Don't you ever get secondhand embarrassment or something? Damn."

"Stop changing the subject, Lance."

"Okay, okay, I…" Frustration made Lance do another impression of a dying whale. "Guuuuuuggh, I don't know, I was just… so _mad_. I thought that maybe, you know, if Keith caught a little of the 'tude, maybe he'd turn off the whole school. How the hell was I supposed to know he was a psychopath?"

"Aaaand, what did we learn?" Hunk's tone was like that of a camp counselor talking to little Jimmy about why sticking worms down Sarah's shirt was wrong.

Lance sighed and gave a pitiful answer. "Don't… throw cafeteria slop…"

"Aaaand?"

"…Don't provoke other people?"

"Exaaaactly."

They paused in their conversation long enough for Lance's mind to go off on a tangent again. The sky was bright this morning, with hardly a cloud in sight. It would've been great for a picnic. Or a run through the park. Or anything, really, even a goddamn trip to the zoo filled with tiny kids screaming and crying their heads off— God, _anything_ to get out of in-school suspension. What shitty luck, to be stuck in a "hole in the wall" office in the basement of a school on a day like this. Fuck.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hunk spoke up again. "Sooo, what's your Plan B with Keith? Did you get to talk about that with Coran yet?"

He was about to answer in the negative when he remembered how much of a little shit he'd been to Coran yesterday. Lance groaned miserably, banging his head against the dashboard. "No," he said, voice sounding a little muffled from the downward angle of his face, "I yelled at him."

Hunk didn't sound surprised. "Alright," he just said, "so then talk to me. What've you got?"

Lance sat up, misery a stubborn companion digging through his feelings. "Well, I can pretend he's dead."

"…Ooookay, that can be Plan C. We still need a Plan B."

Lance threw his hands in the air. "Man, I don't know! I don't care at this point. Just… whatever, I guess. Can we please not talk about this right now? I don't wanna think about Keith first thing in the morning. C'mon, let's talk girls. Let's talk about _Shaaaay~"_ Lance waggled his eyebrows.

Hunk wouldn't have it. "Lance, you know Coran's gonna make you talk about this anyway. _And_ you're gonna need to know what your Plan B is 'cause there's only one SAVE room this year. _And_ you're gonna be seeing a whole lotta Keith for the rest of the year. You can't get in trouble like this again, brah. MIT will drop you." **(4)**

The reality of his situation sank in. His acceptance into MIT wasn't a solid contract just yet. He still had to make it through the rest of his senior year. Damn. Hunk was right. Then again, when was he ever not?

Ugh, Keith. This was all his fault. Him and his poofy mullet and his fancy motorcycle and his _stupid_ crop-top jacket. Where the hell did this kid get his clothes from, anyway? Some eighties-themed thrift store? Was he a hipster? Pfft. He was probably vegan, too.

He was being petty again, and he knew it. He was surprised he was able to admit it so freely. But then again, it could be the fact that he… didn't really feel mad at Keith anymore. There was still some layer of bitterness and, just, overall "UGH" that came to mind, but… Lance found he wasn't mad at him anymore.

The realization of this sudden change of heart was unnerving, because Lance remembered when he started feeling this way. It was right after the fight, when Lance caught sight of the way Keith was stewing in anger — and at himself, no less. Not at Lance, but himself. Why?

And thinking back to it now, Keith hadn't really fought him. Lance could tell there was something holding him back. And it must've been some great and terrible thing if it kept an explosive fuse like Keith at bay. Or maybe he didn't have an explosive fuse, and Lance was misjudging him again. But no, there was another thing about him. That look on his face, from Alvarez' office. That look he had after Shiro yelled at him for so long. What was that look? That look of dejection, of— of fear, of…

Of disgusted shock?

?

What.

The…

Fuuuuuck?

Keith was outside. On the sidewalk. In front of a bus stop. _Right now._ While the Beast was stalled at a red light. Looking at Lance like he'd just spotted some three-headed cockroach with maggots bursting from its stomach.

Then Keith quickly looked away, shaking his head.

WELL FUCK YOU TOO, THEN!

"Lance, stop it. Leave him alone. This is why we need a Plan B."

Lance glared at Keith because what the fuck, how _dare_ he give him that look, as if Lance Christian Ruiz-Mendoza Castillo wasn't the coolest fucking person on the planet. Lance was fucking awesome! And Keith! Was! Not! Getting! It! That goddamn mullet of his was probably dragging his head down with too much gravity and preventing him from seeing the greatness that was—

 _Oh my god._

A chill of excitement ran down his spine. Lance pressed his hands against the glass of the window, nose touching the cold surface, and he glared at Keith until a bus slowed to a stop right between them. Everything in his head screeched to halt, fixating on one thing, and one thing only.

Plan B.

 _He had a Plan B._

"Uh, Lance? Remember what we talked about? About not provoking people? Come on, man, you gotta think of an alternative! What's your alternative action?"

In a low, spiteful voice, Lance whispered against the window: _"I'm gonna make you like me."_

"…I'm gonna assume that's not weird in context," said Hunk.

This was it. This was the plan! This was the key to everything! He was gonna make Keith FUCKING Kogane see his greatness and grovel at his feet and cry. Because Fuck. _You._

Lance unbuckled his seatbelt. His hand went for the door.

"Hey, wait! What're you doing?! _Lance!"_

He shot right out of the car…

And got on the bus.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 **SPANISH TRANSLATIONS**

 **lechón asado  
** _Grilled "Cuban" pork; A popular Cuban dish._ _  
_(My friends used to make sandwiches with leftovers from dinner. It's also really easy to make! :D)

 **desayuno y cena  
** _breakfast and dinner_

 **Esta loco?!  
** _Are you crazy?!_

 **mierda  
** _shit_

 **como  
** _like (in the comparative sense)_

 **Estas diciendo que soy guapo?  
** _Are you saying I'm handsome?_

 **Quién es Ben?  
** _Who is Ben?_

 **Si me das candy, te diré quién es Ben.  
** _If you give me candy, I will tell you who Ben is._

 **mocoso  
** _little brat_

 **Porque estoy enojada y estas junto a mío. Y come tu desayuno!  
** _Because I'm angry and you're standing next to me. And eat your breakfast!_

 **Diego! Ven aquí ahora mismo, o te patearé el culo! No tengo tiempo para esto!  
** _Diego! Get over here right now, or I'll kick your ass! I don't have time for this!_

 **¿Dónde está mi beso de despedida?  
** _Where's my goodbye kiss?_

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

* * *

 **HAWAIIAN PIDGIN TRANSLATIONS**

 **Brah  
** _Bro, dude, etc._

 **Kuleana  
** _responsibility_

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _._

* * *

 **End Notes:**

 **(1)** Whitesboro is real. But it's not what Lance's neighborhood is based off of. His neighborhood (and all its wonderful inhabitants) is based on my own, which will forever remain a mystery.  
 **(2)** AM 1660 is a Korean news radio station. FM 96.7 is K-LOVE, a Christian Contemporary Radio station. My parents forbid me from changing the channel, so this is all I know about radio ;A;  
 **(3)** The bumper sticker is a glow-in-the-dark adhesive Pidge made herself. All it says is a single date.  
 **(4)** All NYC Public School are required to have something called a "SAVE _(Students Against Violence in Education)_ room." This is where students who have in-school suspension are sent to. It is a classroom or office in a school set aside for expressly this purpose and this purpose only. Schools with a larger budget have the ability to staff more SAVE rooms.


	3. Kerberos

There were four other people currently trying to board the Q76 and NONE OF THEM WERE IMPORTANT.

Lance was currently waiting for them to hurry the _fuck_ up and get on the goddamn bus. Thank god he actually had his MetroCard in his wallet, otherwise this whole thing would've been an embarrassing waste of time. **(1)** And hey, at least he didn't have to worry about how to kill time as he waited for 9:20 to tick on by.

Oh wait. He should probably explain this whole "9:20" thing.

To avoid crowding, and to foster a feeling of the Warm Fuzzies within each graduating class, his school divided students into blocked schedules. All the freshman students started and ended at a certain time, all the sophomore students started and ended at a certain time… So on and so forth.

Lance's wonderful school career ran on what was called "The Senior Special" — start at 9:20, get out a little before 2. He only had four classes (one of which was P. E.) since he was _such_ a good little boy and did _all_ of his work ever since he got to high school, so now he was free to reap the benefits.

Regardless of senior privileges, since Lance had in-school suspension, he was still supposed to get to school right at 8:20. To be miserable or whatever, he guessed. _But_ , nobody had ever said anything to him the last time he showed up at 10 AM for a suspension. They just cared about him showing up and doing whatever work the teachers were forced to throw at you. It probably had to do with the fact that there weren't enough teachers to staff the SAVE room for so long — budgets and funding and whatnot.

You'd think a place like Whitesboro would have enough money to pump into its own schools. But apparently not. The damn place never even bothered to update bus routes to make it more convenient for its commuters, even after _years_ of complaints. And oh boy! A clean wrap around to the start! Back on topic again. Wasn't being mentally coherent _fun_?

Don't answer that.

The line for the bus was currently composed of people all straight from his self-directed, self-shot documentary of a very sensitive part of his life, titled "Middle School Hell" and starring Vance's Sidekick #1, Mr. … Uh… Well, there was his girlfriend, Haley Birchington. She was pretty. And Sidekick #1! Mr…! …Something! Uhhhhh… Hmmmmm.

Ugh, okay, still wasn't ringing any bells. It was one of the Tatopoulos triplets. He just couldn't tell which one. **(2)**

Both were part of Vance Warner's crew, and while Lance was pretty sure they didn't really have anything against him personally, the fact that they were even _friendly_ with the Worst Person Ever was enough for Lance to cross them off his list of "People I Think Are Chill." There was also Angelo Stoker and Antonio DiGigogo, DiGimon(o?), DiGi- _something_ , **(3)** with him. They were both pretty much copies of Nick Wagner (Vance's Sidekick #2!), only a _lot_ stupider. And then there was some other dude Lance didn't know. Steve? Sam? Spencer? _Hank?_ IDK man, IDK.

He also didn't know why there was text lingo running through his head. Oh well. LOL?

"Look at you, Lancelot! Been a while, right?"

"You cruisin' with us, now? Awesome."

"?!" went a part of Lance's mind, because _whoa_ , these guys never bothered to talk to him before. Was it because of the fight? Did he forget to wear deodorant today? WHO KNEW?!

Be cool, Lance. Be cool.

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess."

Haha, _nailed it._

"Hunk ain't with you? Awww… Man, I like that guy."

"Yeah, we should all hit the gym some time. Hang out, grab a bite— you know?"

"Uh," said Lance. "Sure?"

…Okay, these two weren't so bad. Actually, he kinda liked them. Why hadn't he ever talked to them before? Hm.

By the time Lance was thinking this, he had dipped his MetroCard into the card scanner and was on the bus. It was such a surreal moment; he felt like he'd just boarded a spaceship or something. When was the last time he was on a public bus? God, he couldn't even remember.

"Crowded" was usually the first thing that came to his mind when he played word association with Diego and the word was "Public Transportation." But the bus wasn't all that crowded. There weren't any seats available, but Lance wasn't sandwiched between Sweaty Dude #1 and Sweaty Dude #2 or anything. It was nice. The windows were also a lot smaller than he'd remembered, or maybe he just grew up.

Please let it be him growing up. _Please._

He caught sight of Keith pretty quickly. The guy was wearing that stupid crop-top jacket while everyone else was wearing, well, _normal people outfits_. He was also wearing headphones and looking at his— Well. Actually, he couldn't really see that much. Whatever — the guy was probably just on his phone. Lance squinted from where he was, pushing on some girl's shoulder (hey, her eyes were _nice_ ) to get a better look. Yep, Keith was on his phone. And also, ugh, his headphones were _Beats._ Please. What a rip-off.

Even after all of Lance's INTENSE GLARING, Keith didn't seem to notice Lance was even on the bus. Which was just perfect, because hello, FBI? Lance here. Is there an availability for field agents, 'cause _BOOM_ , baby, Lance was a goddamn pro.

He was vaguely aware that he was probably making some kind of weird face, because he caught Rhonda Williams giving him a _"you fucking weirdo"_ stare and Martin Ford kind of looked like he was scared — which was, not gonna lie, _rude_.

Anyway. Plan B.

To be quite honest, Lance had no idea how he was gonna execute Plan B. All he knew was that it had to work, and he was in the perfect environment to initiate first contact and get the ball rolling. That meant that, no matter what happened, he _could not fail_.

Okay. Okay. He could do this. Just… go up there, and—

The bus lurched to a stop, and Lance fell backwards.

Shitshitshit, _fuck,_ fucking _hell_ —

Wait, he wasn't falling anymore. Why wasn't he falling?

Lance blinked open his eyes and stared right into the beautiful face of Nyma Chandra.

Nyma! Nyma Chandra! _You_ know, the girl he spork-launched spaghetti sauce at? Yeah. _That_ Nyma. _Hot_ Nyma. Fuck Plan B, Hot Nyma had one of her perfect little hands on his back! Breaking his fall! Saving him! Gazing into his eyes! They had history together and she was _so_ totally into him.

"Hey, babe." Lance put on a charming grin, twisting around and grabbing the same metal pole she was holding onto and leaning against it. "Come here often?"

Nyma sent him a cold stare. Then she made some kind of high-pitched "hmph!" noise, stuck her nose in the air, and turned her face to the side.

Yeouch. Right in the heart. So much for history.

Okay! Back to Plan B! _(cue gross sobbing)_

"Ayo, Lance!"

What the fuck. Who was _that?_ Was that Nick Wagner? Please don't be Nick. _Please_ don't be Nick. PLEASE don't be Nick.

"Dude, I'm standin' right next to you. I know you can hear me."

It was Nick.

"Hi," was Lance's very warm welcome.

"Man, how've you been? It's been forever since I got to see you like this. We haven't talked since… Well, you know."

Lance refused to carry the conversation further. Luckily for him, Nick actually wanted to continue their talk. GREAT!

"So, uh, I hear you got into MIT? That's amazing!" Here, he clapped Lance on the shoulder. "I'm proud of you, man. I knew you were gonna make it in, no matter what the team said."

…Okay, Nick wasn't so bad either. But he was still Vance's #2.

Lance shrugged. "Thanks. I guess."

"You ever thought about comin' back to football? I mean, I know we're graduatin' and the season's almost over… But there's still a few months left, right?"

Lance gave Nick a quick glance. "I'd rather not."

Nick just nodded, giving him a rather serious look. "Alright. I can respect that."

Another awkward moment of nothing came between them. Then, Nick opened his mouth again.

"Hey, you, uh… You think _he'd_ be interested?" Nick jerked a thumb over his shoulder, which Lance followed to see—

Oh, you _gotta_ be fucking kidding.

"Yeah, I know this is kind of an awkward question, seein' how you two fought yesterday. But, uh. The team's pretty desperate for an RB. Thompson tore somethin' in his leg in our last game, and things haven't been the same since. But that guy's fuckin' fast. He got to you in a flash!"

Lance clenched his jaw. "Thanks for reminding me."

"No prob. Hey, I'll be right back. I'mma talk to him for a sec. Wait right here, 'kay?"

Lance's eyes widened.

… _What?_

Nick was already by Keith when Lance whirled around.

"Yo, Keith!"

Keith didn't even turn around until Nick got real close. Keith spared Nick a quick look and a nod. He probably thought that was all that was required of him, because he just went back to his phone.

But Nick wasn't done.

"Nice tackle the other day," Nick plowed on, as if Keith was totally enraptured by what he was saying. "Have you ever thought of playin' for the team?"

MISSION AT RISK, Lance's brain screeched as he was closing the gap between him and Keith. REMOVE INTERFERENCE _IMMEDIATELY._

In response to Nick's question, Keith only raised a hand up to his Beats and slid it off one ear.

"What?" he asked.

Nick wasn't fazed. "Why don't you come to one of our practices? You can do a few warm-ups with us, if that's your thing. Sound good?"

The bus lurched to another stop, and Lance fucking _ran_ the rest of the way because holy _shit_ was this _not_ fair. " _Nope_ , no, no younonononono, _no_ you don't _—_ "

" … ?" "Dude, is somethin' wro—?"

"— _I'm_ talking to Keith. He's _my_ buddy now," was the drivel that came out of his mouth as he made a shoo'ing gesture in Nick's direction.

"Uh," said Nick, slowly backing away.

Lance ignored him and promptly turned on his heel to look at Keith and his _"why is this happening to me"_ face, and slapped on his best grin.

TIME TO START PLAN B!

Lance extended a hand out. "Hi, you remember me, right? The name's Lance. You punched me the other day and I held back 'cause, you know, the whole 'be the bigger person' thing. _Any_ way, since we'll be stuck forever in the same room today, I figured, hey! Even if I think you're a total dick and you probably think the same, why not let bygones be bygones and be dicks together? Am I right, or am I right?"

Keith stared at him. "…Excuse me?"

Oh, for the love of—

Lance sighed sharply through his nose, dropping his hand. "What I'm saying, _Keith_ , is that you are in extreme need to witness my greatness, so we should be _buddies_. The friendly 'not-friends' kind, you know? Sort of like… rivals? You know, rivals by day, bros by night. …Rival-bros! We should totally be rival-bros."

Keith narrowed his eyes. "…The… coffee?" **(4)**

Lance stared. "What."

Keith turned away with a scowl. "Nevermind."

"No, seriously. _What?"_

Keith glared. "I said, never mind."

" _Coffee?_ How the hell did you get _coffee_ from my proclamation of our rivalry-slash-friendship, _not_ -friendship?!"

Keith shut his eyes and vigorously shook his head. "Aaaaugh, stop talking! Man, you're annoying." Keith started looking out the windows along the side of the bus.

Lance blew sharply through his nose. _Annoying?!_ And what do you call looking out every window while in the middle of an extremely important, life-changing conversation, _Keith?!_ Without thinking, Lance grabbed Keith by the front of his shirt, meeting the other boy's murderous glare with a fierce look of his own. "Listen here, you little—"

 _Plan B_ , his mind whispered frantically. _Plan B!_

Lance stopped himself.

He let go of Keith. Breathed deeply.

And tried again.

"Look, I'm trying to establish a friendly, not-friendly relationship here. I just want us to— Are you even listening to me?!"

Keith suddenly bared his teeth, some kind of low growl tearing out of him. "I am _so_ fucking done with you." Keith yanked the yellow cord draped along the sides of the bus.

"What are you— Excuse me, I'm trying to have a conversation with you!"

"No, you're trying to piss me off, and that hole in your face is doing splendidly."

Lance watched Keith shove past the other students to the back entrance just as the bus ground to a stop. Keith pounded impatiently on the exit. "Back door!"

The doors swished open, and Lance watched as Plan B _stepped the fuck out_ , what the _SHIT?_

Lance grit his teeth. _"_ Get back here!" He rushed to the back exit and stuck his head out. "We're _not_ done!"

"Get lost!" Keith shouted.

" _YOU'RE_ the one getting lost! You're going the wrong way! The school is in the _other_ direction?!"

Keith just kept walking.

Before he could say anything else, Lance felt someone yank hard on the back of his collar. The back doors swung shut and he collapsed backwards onto something _warm_ , something _soft_ , something that felt like a heavenly resting place housed by a thousand angels—

The sweet, sweet bosom of Nyma Chandra.

Rawr. She _totally_ digged him. History, my man. _History._

Nyma was giving him a narrow-eyed stare. So was everyone else on the bus, but Lance was kind of used to that now. And besides, _fuck them_. As if anyone could possibly understand the severity of Lance's situation right now because he _fucked up Plan B,_ god _damn_.

"You're hopeless."

Lance grinned at her. "Nah, babe. Just hope _ful_."

Nyma rolled her eyes, pushing him away with an index finger. "Next time, I should just kick you out of the bus."

"Aw, babe, don't be like that—"

Someone started coughing in the back, mixing in _"fuckboy"_ and _"thirsty"_ every other cough.

"Don't label yourself," Lance immediately fired off, exactly at the same time Nyma said the very same thing herself.

He and Nyma locked eyes for a second. Then, they laughed.

Oh, sweet, _sweet_ Nyma.

Nyma Chandra was the school's Bitch Queen. She was all sharp words and smiles and could fuck you up six ways 'til Sunday if you didn't watch your mouth — and the Beast had the dents to prove it. But she wasn't all that bad. Someway or another, they managed to get along, even if Lance had to ruin it by flirting with her. Because come _on_ , how could he _not?_

"You know," Lance said once the last of the laughter between them settled, "we haven't caught up for real since last year. Hey! Remember when me and Pidge crashed into Hot Topic during your shift on Halloween? And then we made Rolo treat us all to smoothies in exchange for your employee discount benefits?"

Nyma laughed again, eyes crinkling at the corners. It made Lance feel buttery inside. Nyma always managed to do that, even without a smile. Fuck what the others said behind her back. Nyma could be pretty damn amazing sometimes. You just had to know what to say.

"Haha, yeah, I remember." Then she sighed wistfully. "Aw, I miss Rolo so much. He moved away after that summer, and now we're living without free smoothies." Her nostalgic smile turned teasing as she looked at her phone and started swiping along the screen. "He's in California now, and says everything's so different except for his job. Here, look— He's still working at a Jamba Juice even way out in San Diego. Can you _believe_ him?"

The sight of Rolo in the same Jamba Juice apron under his ridiculous blue vest made Lance laugh. "He still has that ugly blue thing? I thought he had to get rid of it after he got motor oil on it."

"He said he bought two when it was on sale."

Lance snapped his fingers. "Right, I remember! I made fun of him for that, and he almost didn't give me that shirt I asked him to get! I'm actually wearing it, by the way. Feel it, it's awesome."

She took a moment to touch the sleeve of his shirt. "Hey, yeah, it's really soft. It feels really… silky. What's it made of?"

"Boyfriend material." Lance waggled his eyebrows.

Immediately, Nyma retracted her hand.

"…I'm never talking to you again."

Lance cackled.

.

.

.

.

.

There was no security guard at the desk when he entered (holy _shit_ , the Principal would have an aneurysm if he knew), so Lance just swiped his card through the scanner to let himself in. There was a great big rush of— of _something_ once Lance pushed himself through the heavy doors and entered the main lobby of his school.

The whirlwind in his head settled down, filling instead with a dull silence and the feeling of _wow_ , the janitors sure got busy last night— just look at these _floors!_ Hel _lo_ , handsome.

No, wait, don't get distracted! Come on, Lance. Suspension. Gotta make it to the SAVE room. Don't make it worse for yourself just yet, alright? You've got a loooong day ahead of you.

Sighing, Lance craned his head back to look at the big clock hanging on the wall above the three-tiered glass display of football trophies won by the Commodore Raptors. He blinked, eyebrows shooting up, because _wow_ , he got in right on time.

It was 9:19 and fifty-seven… fifty-eight… fifty-nine…

The second hand gave another tick, and then something like a bell clanged over the PA system. The effect was immediate: doors burst open and footsteps thudded down the halls. Chatter echoed everywhere, taunts and laughter and gossip thrumming in his brain and making him feel like he'd just inhaled fifteen pixie sticks and washed it all down with two cans of soda. The area where Lance had been idly standing by was flooded with students, turning That Big Open Space Near Staircase 1 into Grand Central Terminal in seconds. Times Square was the hall straight ahead, with bright lights from the vending machines lining the short way down. **(5)**

It was the heaven of hallways.

Lance dived right in, swimming through it all and loving the quick _"hey!"_ s and _"yo, what up, Lance?"_ s he got as he cut through Grand Central and walked down the line of junk food and energy bars. He found Hunk somewhere in the mix, chatting it up with Shay as usual by the back staircase. They were _so_ dating. Just look at their faces! You couldn't smile like that unless you were dating.

Hunk spotted him quickly. His eyes got real big, and some kind of look like _"holy shit!"_ came on his face. "Lance!" he shouted, breaking away from his little love pow-wow with Shay and running over as if Lance would just up and disappear into thin air in seconds.

And, uh. Well. He _did_ kind of do that this morning, didn't he?

"Lance, what happened? I'm hearing stuff about Nyma having to hold you back from chasing down Keith!" Hunk exclaimed, though thankfully not all that loud.

 _Uuuggggghhhhhhh,_ went Lance to himself. He was pretty sure his face reflected it well, because Hunk did _not_ look happy.

Oh, boy! Letting your friends down first thing in the morning _felt! so! great!_

"Okay, before you say anything, I just want to say that it's _totally_ not as bad as you think it is," said Lance. He took one look at Hunk's _"oh really?"_ face and whipped his head at Shay for some much needed back-up.

Only, she was looking away with a very suspicious _"I am_ so _not here right now"_ expression.

Lance squinted his eyes at Shay. Nyma, his mind told him, was her _best friend._ And Nyma told Shay _everything_. Shay, in turn, talked to Hunk _every day._ It wasn't hard to connect the dots.

"Shay, did Nyma text you?"

Shay scratched the side of her face, staring at the line of gushers in one of the vending machines. "Um," she said, a nervous smile spreading on her face. "Sort of."

NYMA, YOU LYING, GOSSIPING TRAITOR.

 _Hot_ traitor, though. He'd still tap that. But still— _THAT TRAITOR_. How _could_ she?! They shared a laugh and caught up and _everything!_ And yeah, sure, he _did_ hit on her more than once, even after the "boyfriend material" crack, but _HOW COULD SHE?_

Insert sounds of a shattering heart.

"Lance." Hunk put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm siding with you on this, 'cause I can tell you're serious. But don't… Don't do anything weird that'll get you in trouble today, okay? Please?"

"No problem, Hunk," he said with forced cheer.

 _Let's sin today!_ said his mind with great cheer.

 _Fuck_ , said his soul with no cheer at all, because _damn_.

This was gonna be a _long_ day.

.

.

.

.

.

He slid down the banister and jumped off before it ended to land soundly at the bottom of the stairs in a perfect ten. He gave a few bows and waved to his admirers. Fanfares sounded, and there were cheers and rainbow confetti everywhere. It was amazing.

It was also all in his head, duh.

Lance left the stairwell and followed the single dank hallway. Not dank as in, like, "whoa, this blunt is dank, bruh," but dank as in, "this hallway is in the basement of a hundred-year-old building that may or may not house its own mold civilization."

He heard the orchestra room before he got to it. They were right about to start playing that Jupiter song again, and Lance stuck by the room for a while, listening to the music. He could tell that they'd just started playing it, because he actually got to hear the opening bars this time. He heard the strings carry the tune, creating a sense of well-anticipated excitement before the brass fanfares kicked in, making way for a slow, majestic tune that churned into a strong crescendo. **(6)**

He hadn't intended to actually listen to the entire thing while sitting on the dank floor, but when the hallway became still and silent, Lance realized, shit, I'm sitting on the dank floor, ew. He was getting up when he saw out of the corner of his eye some kid standing in the hallway and just… staring. Standing and staring like a fucking creeper and _golly!_ Just _what_ were the chances of the stars aligning to make _this_ happen?

Keith! Was! Here!

Keith was being a fucking creeper and just… standing. And staring. And looking kind of… Frowny? What was he looking like that for? Was he worried Lance was gonna try and shank him? Well, he _should_ , to be honest, high-tailing it right out of that bus after all the _work_ Lance put into executing Plan B, _damn._

Keith's face didn't change even when Lance stared at him for a good, like, two minutes. He was either insanely confident in himself and didn't give a shit about what Lance was thinking right now (you _suck_ , go fall in a ditch and _die_ ) or he was just one of those really, really stoic Asian types and was hiding the fact that he was having an internal crisis (omg! Lance is so kewl!) upon realizing how awesome Lance was.

There was only one way he would be able to tell.

Lance opened his mouth.

"You look constipated. Bathroom's on the first floor."

The look in Keith's eye became sharp. The guy clomped all the way down the hall, breezing past him without even a single look, ripping the door of the SAVE room open and slamming it shut behind him.

Oh, he was _totally_ on crisis mode.

Lance threw his head back and cackled.

.

.

.

.

.

Running the SAVE room today was Mr. Clark, a data analyst from another school that was excessed and pushed into this sad dump of an existence. Lance felt bad for the dude, especially 'cause Mr. Clark was young and kinda cool. His arms were also hella fine, damn.

Yo, universe! Young, hardworking teacher available— give him a break and get him a real job, will ya? Thanks.

While he was here, Lance did the best he could to make Mr. Clark's experience here as wonderful and memorable as it could be.

As soon as he entered, Lance stopped in front of Mr. Clark's desk. "What up, Supes?" he asked, clicking his tongue and pointing double finger guns in the teacher's direction.

Mr. Clark took one look at him and sighed. "Have a seat, Lance," he said, gesturing to the third seat in the first row. Lance followed the gesture with his eyes.

Sitting _him_ next to the _bulletin board?_ And _all day long?_ Not a good idea.

Oh well.

"Sure thing, Supes."

"Lance, your fly is open."

Shit.

He fixed that up fairly quickly.

He whistled the slow melody the orchestra had been playing before as he passed by rows of empty chairs. There were two other guys serving the sentence besides him. There was Keith, who was already engrossed in some book (what the _fuck_ was evangelion?) in the back row, and some other guy he recognized as one of Alexa's friends. Terry? Was that short for Terrance? Who knew.

He dumped himself in his seat and was about to ask the guy what his name was when the door opened.

Lance stopped breathing.

"Hi Mr. Clark," said Pidge, walking in with a genial smile. "Mrs. Arroyo asked if I could drop this off for the seniors. It's also from their other classes."

Mr. Clark didn't even look up from his work as he took the thick packets. "Thanks, Kyle."

"It's Katie."

The room went silent. All eyes were at the front of the room.

Lance watched Mr. Clark try to fix things.

"Er, of course. That's what I meant to say. Thank you, Katie."

Pidge walked out without another word, slamming the door behind her.

Mr. Clark looked through the packets as if nothing had really happened.

And Lance was just…

She didn't even _look_ at him! She didn't even— Not even for a _second._

He didn't know what to do. Did he— Did he just let her ignore him? Or should he talk to her and risk fucking things up even more? What if he said the wrong things? What even _were_ the right things to say? Wh-What was she even mad at him about in the first place? What was it that she said to him the other day? That— That there weren't any _sides?_ To learn how to _let things go?_ What the heck did that even mean?!

And GOSH, Mr. Clark, just WHERE was your APOLOGY in that hot mess of a fuck up?!

"Lance."

He snapped his head up and hit his nose against a thick packet of papers. He let it drop on his desk and didn't mutter a word of thanks even as Mr. Clark moved on because _how the hell was he gonna fix this?!_

A sharp, metallic _clack clack clack_ was echoing in the room. Had been, for a while, actually. His mind was just too occupied earlier to let it get to him before, but now it was starting to get annoying.

Where the _fuck_ was that noise coming from?!

Mr. Clark sighed. "Lance, please stop that."

He stilled. For some reason, his left leg felt tired. And the noise had stopped.

 _Oh._

It was his chair. He'd been making that noise when he was shaking his leg. Oops.

"Sorry."

The room became quiet again. Lance thought it was louder than the metallic clacking and it was slowly driving him up the wall because all he heard was his own brain screaming the same three words at him _— Pidge! Hates! You!_ _—_ over and over again to the beat of his heart drumming in his chest and _aaaaAAAAAHHHHHHHH—_

He needed a distraction, _now._

Slowly, Lance turned his head to the left. The bulletin board was blank on his end. He turned to the front of the room. Mr. Clark was doing some paperwork. He looked busy.

 _Perfect_.

He lifted the packet of work with one hand, bringing it high enough so that it could hide what he was about to draw on the blue poster paper lining the bulletin board. He made sure that it still looked like he was reading from his teacher's end and he—

What, what _is_ that?

Lance squinted at his suspension packet.

There was a green-and-white striped paper clip in his packet.

It was barely visible; just a tiny lump of color between the pages of the packet. It was holding a piece of looseleaf to the back.

There was only one person he knew who used these kinds of paper clips.

He held his breath.

He pulled the last sheet of paper free, and set it down on top of the packet. He laid out the whole thing on the desk. And he read it.

 _Lance,_

 _Do you remember how we became friends?_

 _You and Hunk helped me look for my laptop in the junkyard. There must've been hundreds of piles of sheet metal and pipes and every other piece of scrapped metal made in human existence, but the two of you stayed up all night with me trying to help me find my stuff. Then you punched the shit out of Benzi and stayed as my lookout in the hallway later as I reset the passcode on Mark's phone._

 _I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I really value our friendship. We've come a long way since we first met three years ago. You've been my number one supporter. You and Hunk have always been by my side, even as everyone else drifted away during my transition. And I'm grateful to you for that, and appreciate it in ways I can never put to words. I've always admired the passion you have for those you care for. But you need to remember that sometimes, you have to back down to win._

 _Yesterday, when I yelled at you and said all those things, I didn't mean to say it in front of everyone. I don't apologize for what I said, but Iam sorry it came out that way and at that time. I was just frustrated, because I couldn't believe how you of all people could be so judgmental and crass and narrow-minded at someone who maybe just needs somebody to be there for them. Still, it was wrong of me to bring up your own issues like that. And yesterday, when I_ —

Lance turned the page over.

— _helped Keith, it wasn't because I was taking sides. Not everything is about taking sides. Sometimes, you just have to stop and care for other people. We all have our own skeletons in our closet, but not everyone has the audacity or even the willingness to drag them out and deal with them head-on like you do._

 _I hope you understand. And I hope we can still stay friends._

 _Love, for infinity and beyond,_ _  
_ _Pidge_

There was a rush of relief and warmth and love and, just, _emotion_ that was hitting him right now because she was right, she was totally, _totally_ right.

If there was ever someone else who was always right, it would be this little lady right here. She got him in ways Hunk kind of didn't, and she never put up with his shit, _ever_. She wasn't afraid to call him out when he was being a shithead, and she rarely minced words. And yeah, Hunk did do the same, but it was gentle and caring. Pidge was strong and firm. And Lance needed both to stay grounded.

Lance reached into his bag to rip out a sheet of paper from a spiral notebook. After carefully getting rid of the perforated margin, and holding the cap of his pen between his teeth, Lance began to craft his response to Pidge.

First, he drew a futuristic, streamlined spacecraft, complete with a mounted laser gun that could easily retract at the push of a button. He drew himself in the cockpit, with Pidge as his co-pilot. Hunk was SuperHunk, flying alongside their ship and crushing a hostile alien ship with his bare hands. He drew large smiles on everyone's faces. And stars. There were stars everywhere.

Underneath, Lance wrote in all caps: **BEST FRIENDS CRUISIN' TO INFINITY AND BEYOND!**

He capped his pen and admired his handiwork.

It was beautiful.

Then he shot a hand in the air. "Mr. Clark!"

"What is it, Lance?"

Lance folded the note and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"You just got here."

"But—"

"That's a no, Lance."

Lance banged his head against his desk. "Fuck."

"Watch your language."

"…Yes, sir."

.

.

.

.

.

 _Hi. It's me, Prisoner #86._

 _You! Yes, you. I'm talking to you._

 _Don't turn away. That's rude. Don't be like Keith._

 _Anyway, now that I have your attention, let me convey to you my exact feelings of this period of my life:_

 _MY!_

 _BRAIN!_

 _IS!_

 _MELTING!_

He was slowly carving all of the above onto a blank spot on the bulletin board whenever Mr. Clark had to do… "Mr. Clark" things. In the background of his life was Keith's pencil, scritch-scritching on paper. He could also hear Terry-whatshisface whispering like an idiot to _"write my name on the board!"_ amongst other things (that he could fuck all night, that he was lookin' for love, that he loved to suck dick, that his number was 917-746-1270). That was Kevin Reinhardt's number. Lance knew 'cause Kevin Reinhardt was going out with Mary Lopez, but only to start talking to her best friend Arly Muñiz, who was going out with Peter Jang, who had a huuuuge crush on Vanessa Wilder, whom Lance was pretty sure vaped 24/7 and spread gossip through every pipe she blew out of.

Also, little-miss-vape gave him this number when Lance asked for her digits.

Yikes.

ANY! WAY!

Who thought it was a good idea to sit Lance next to the bulletin board? That person needed an immediate refresher course in classroom management, STAT. 'Cause boy, you didn't wanna see his side of the board at the end of the day. _He_ didn't wanna look at his side of the board either.

(There were dicks. Dicks everywhere. And cries for help.)

But could you really blame him? He'd been sitting all day with a lap full of busy work, and his head was spinning from having to run through double integrals and vector integrals for the last hour and a half. Everything else, he'd breezed right on through, no problem. It was just this, because… WHO ASSIGNS VECTOR INTEGRAL PROBLEMS WITHOUT A GRAPHING PROGRAM? HMMM? **(7)**

He'd written a very heartfelt essay to his teacher about that. _Dear Mr. Li,_ it began, _FUCK YOU._

Nah, just kidding.

He did the problems anyway.

Incorrectly.

CUE INNOCENT WHISTLING.

Okay, okay, enough fucking around. Back to work.

Lance flipped through the last assignment he had left. It was Brodsky's work. He'd left it last because he was feeling petty again and thought it was just retribution for basically throwing shade and inviting Keith and not him and just _never talking to him_ about it, not even once. Who _did_ that? Someone who could _suck it_ , that's who. And to emphasize that, he also wrote "TO MR. SUCKMYDICK, _love Lance_ " on the front page, because neither Hunk nor Pidge were here right now and they were pretty much one hundred-percent of his impulse control in the afternoon.

But after going through Dr. Li's work, Mr. SUCKMYDICK's assignment suddenly didn't seem all that bad. Read the article, answer the questions, write a response — the holy trinity of a suspension assignment.

He blacked out "MR. SUCKMYDICK" with his pen.

Lance squinted at it.

Damn it. It was still visible.

Oh well.

He ignored the first page of instructions and went right into the work. He was greeted by a blurry black and white photo of two male figures that made him freeze. Above the photo was the following headline:

 **NASA RESUMES ASTRO-EXPLORATION WITH GALAXY SUPPORT  
** _Aerospace Engineers Trained By Galaxy Alliance Commanders Use Data From 2012 Kerberos Mission To Design New Spacecraft For Second Astro-Exploration Team._ (Apr. 2016) **(8)**

For about a minute, Lance did nothing but stare at the headlines. Then, he started to read.

 _CAPE CANAVERAL, FL_ — _4 years after the first Kerberos mission, NASA unveils new plans to launch Victoria-2 with Earth's second team of astro-explorers. Collaborating with NASA's spacecraft engineers is Commander Landon Steele, the new Sky Marshall of Galaxy Garrisons appointed by Space Marshall William Graham after the resignation of former US General Herbert Wade. The new shuttle, Victoria-2, named to continue the legacy of the first shuttle launched to Kerberos in 2012, will be operated by a crew specially trained by officers appointed by the Galaxy Alliance._

Oh…

Oh, no.

Lance's stomach sank. He really, really hoped this was just a suspension assignment and not extension work. Was Pidge reading this, too? She'd lost her father and brother in the first Kerberos mission. Did Brodsky not know, or was he trying to win Asshole Of The Year™ (2016)?

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. This was turning out to be one heck of a day.

 _The renewed Kerberos mission continues the work of astronauts Dr. Samuel Holt, mission commander, and his son, Matthew Holt, mission specialist. Both were on board the original Victoria shuttle in 2012 when communication with the crew was lost as the shuttle entered the Kuiper Belt. Searches conducted by the Galaxy Alliance shed little light on the tragic disappearance of Earth's first team of astro-explorers._

 _Boarding Victoria-2 is a crew selected by_ —

Lance cut his reading short, eyes squinting with bewilderment.

That… That wasn't right. There were only two names here. The original Kerberos flight had three.

Lance stopped reading, rapidly scanning the rest of the article.

— _all_ _graduates of the United States Air Force Academy, which has remained a strong supporter of Galaxy Alliance intervention since the loss of a cherished scholar and director of_ —

— _awaiting_ _prominent discoveries, as a result of detecting new gravitational waves in February of 2016_ —

— _detected from the farthest orbit of our universe_ —

Lance stopped reading. Slowly, he put the article down.

There was no mention of the third pilot.

Now, Lance knew he was no genius. Vector calculus was impossible, and he could never seem to memorize more than ten things from the world's never-ending list of historical figures and events. He couldn't tell the jock triplets apart, kept mixing up which sibling hated which berry, and on top of that, his brain was wired the wrong way and he exacerbated it by letting hectic mornings interfere with his regimen of "one morning and evening dose of Strattera every day."

But he knew everything there was to know about the Galaxy Alliance.

And he knew — he would give up an arm and a leg if he were wrong — that there was a third member in that crew. He might not remember the man's name, but he _did_ remember that the guy damn well existed.

 _Look it up,_ his mind suggested, and he agreed, wholeheartedly. He had to look this up. He had to know the man's name.

Lance felt his hand shoot up in the air.

Mr. Clark didn't _see_ him.

"Mr. Clark!"

"Hm? What is it, Lance?"

His fingers made a rapid drumbeat on the desk. "I need to look something up. Can I use my phone?"

"Lance, you're in the SAVE room. And you know it's against—"

"Then, can I use _your_ phone?" he blurted without a thought. Then he added, "Please?"

"Lance—"

"Or—Or your laptop? I just _really_ need to check something—"

"Go back to your work."

"No, you don't understand, sir— This article— It's _wrong!"_

Mr. Clark gave him a look. "The article," he repeated in deadpan. "The article from your assignment. Is wrong."

"Yes!" He felt like pulling his hair. "Look—" He was out of his seat and pushing empty desks out of his way until he got to the front of the room. He threw the article in front of Mr. Clark and— "On the original Kerberos flight, the one four years ago, there were three men in that crew. _Three of them._ But this— Look, here, there's— that's just two names!"

Lance felt Mr. Clark pull the article from his clenched fingers. He watched Mr. Clark's eyes rove meticulously over each word, reading the entirety of the article (all three pages of it), and then skim it over again. He felt himself breathing, deep, heavy breaths that was starting to make his head spin, and he realized—

He'd just thrown a fit over a missing name in an article. Him, a _kid_. Blathering on about how a news article was _incorrect._

Shit. Was he— Was he out of line? Was Mr. Clark… mad? That didn't look like the face of someone who was mad. That looked like the face of… of a blank wall, _fuck_ , what the hell kind of a time to put on a poker face, you fucking—

"This is an article written for a NASA blog by researchers hired by NASA," said Mr. Clark, setting the paper down and looking up at him with a very calm stare. "You still think it's wrong?"

"I—" Lance shut his mouth. He wasn't sure what to say.

How much did an eighteen-year-old like him know about the Kerberos mission, anyway?

His jaw clenched, and his hands squeezed at his sides into tight fists.

A lot more than this fucking journalist, for sure.

"Yes," he heard himself say, voice surprisingly calm. "I still think it's wrong."

Mr. Clark stared at him for a moment longer, then nudged the article toward him. "I think you have another teacher to impress."

Lance blinked. _What?_

Mr. Clark smiled. "I'm saying you should show him up. Impress Brodsky. In writing, of course. Please don't run out of the SAVE room. That would jeopardize you _and_ myself. I rather like working here."

Mr. Clark pressed the article back into his hands.

Lance nodded mutely. As he turned around to go back to his seat, he held his breath.

Keith was giving him a curious look.

 _What?_ He wanted to yell, but Mr. Clark stopped him.

"You still can't use your phone, though. Sorry. You're free to use it once your suspension is over."

That drew his focus back, grounding him. Lance breathed.

"Okay," he said, and quickly went back to his seat. He scanned the task page. _Read and annotate the article. Respond to the close reading questions. Explain the historical and scientific significance of Victoria-2's planned voyage to Kerberos in April of 2017._

Read the article, answer the questions, write a response. There it was, the holy trinity of suspension assignments. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. And Lance was about to throw it in a blender and make a mess out of it. Fuck, yeah!

Lance uncapped his pen and started to write.

The whole time he wrote his response to the article, his hand shook and he wasn't sure why.

Maybe it was because he was hyper aware of the way Keith was staring at him the whole time.

.

.

.

.

.

Lance stared at the clock.

The clock read 2:38.

In two minutes, he would be free. _Free_.

His leg bounced under the table. One of the chair's metal legs rattled against the floor.

Mr. Clark stopped caring. Terrance didn't give a shit. Lance didn't give a shit. Keith never gave a shit. So _clack clack clack_ went the chair, all the way until the clock read 2:39.

SIXTY SECONDS LEFT HOLY SHIT.

Lance was practically vibrating in his chair now. The _clack clack clack_ suddenly became a single sound — _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_ — that Mr. Clark still didn't care about. It jolted Terror awake from his nap. Keith _still_ never gave a shit.

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_

Fifty seconds left.

Lance picked up his pen. Drew a laser gun on the back of his packet. Made it shoot blue highlighter marks into a blank sky. He decided to color the sky with a pen.

 _scritchscritchscritchscritchscritch_

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_

He stopped.

Looked at the clock.

Forty-five seconds left.

 _scritchscritchscritchscritchscritch_

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_

 _Screeeeeeeeeech_ , went Mr. Clark's chair when he stood up at his desk.

"I'll be going around to collect your work now," he said.

Lance colored in his sky faster.

 _SCRITCHSCRITCHSCRITCHSCRITCH_

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_

Mr. Clark walked down the empty rows.

Lance finished the sky, capped the pen, threw it in his bag.

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK_

He held out his work when Mr. Clark approached him.

Mr. Clark didn't take his work. Instead, he stood there, and just.

Stared.

 _CLACKCLACKCLACKclackclack_

"Lance, why are there penises on the bulletin board?"

 _clack… clack… . . . ._

His leg stilled, and the world froze. Time had stopped, but his heart worked double-time.

 _dokdokdokdokdokdok_

 _Shiiiiiit,_ his mind hissed.

"I can explain!" he blurted, jumping up from his chair.

"No need," said Mr. Clark, walking away to the other students for their work. "You're staying to help me redo this board."

 _NO,_ his soul wept again, and Lance collapsed in his chair and stared at the clock and—

It was 2:40.

Suspension was done.

Terrance shot out of the room, now wide awake. Keith was dumping his book into his bag and slung it over his shoulder as he got up to leave.

And Lance was stuck in a dank basement for all of eternity, doomed to a room of sadness that looped images of crudely illustrated dicks spurting spunk in his face because _HAHA_ you're an idiot, and you'll never escape that for all of infinity—

Infinity. Infinity and beyond.

Pidge!

The _NOTE!_

"Holy _shit!_ Keith! WAIT!"

Lance was at the door just as Keith was stepping out. He ignored Mr. Clark shouting after him, intent on stopping the scowling, bitchfaced, mullet-wearing _dweeb_ — Hey, _GET BACK HERE!_

Lance clapped a hand on Keith's shoulder. He hardly bat an eyelash when Keith whirled around with a ferocious glare and—

"Give this to Pidge. It's important."

Slowly, Keith's face unfolded from anger. It turned stony and blank, the only hint of expression in the suspicious way he eyed the folded note in Lance's hand.

" _Please,"_ he pressed, pushing the note forward. "She wrote me a letter, and I wrote her back. It _has_ to get to her today."

Keith stared at the paper for five full seconds.

Lance was about ready to just staple the note right onto Keith's face when finally, Keith said something.

"I don't know where she is."

A chorus of _Hallelujah!_ went off in the back of his head, because yes! Keith was _not_ a total dick, thank GOD.

"She'll be with Hunk. Front entrance, by the gates. She's wearing a green sweater and has reddish-orangish hair in a ponytail and these giant, ridiculous glasses— Oh! Hunk's wearing a red shirt and jeans, but the jeans have this weird triangle cut on his right knee cause of a skateboarding thing, like, two weeks ago, and—"

"Got it, okay," was Keith's curt response, snatching the note from Lance's fingers. He turned on his heel and walked swiftly down the hall.

 _Say thank you,_ his mind reminded him oh-so helpfully. _Hurry and thank him before he leaves! Plan B! THIS IS PLAN B!_

"Hey, Keith!" Lance shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Keith slowed down his pace in the hall.

"You're awesome!"

Keith stopped, hand on the door to the staircase. He looked over his shoulder.

" _Lance!"_ Mr. Clark grabbed him by the back of his collar. "Get back inside!"

And fucking hell, of _course_ he was pulled back into the room at this very moment. Because why the fuck not? The universe didn't care about Plan B.

What a shitty day today was turning out to be.

.

.

.

.

.

GET READY FOR LANCE, BITCHES!

He kicked open the main door to the school, almost getting hit in the head from the back when some lady rushed out and fucking _pushed him aside_ like the rude plebeian she was, holy _shit_ , what the fuck? How _dare_ you? You're not even a teacher, _you MICROWAVE LUNCHES IN THE CAFETERIA FOR KIDS!_

" _There_ he is," sighed his favorite smol birb.

"Lance! Over here!" exclaimed his rock and his fortress.

He heard them, but he didn't see them. And when he finally did, he was practically flying down the stairs to get to them because oh my god, _oh my god_ , they _waited_ for him. They actually stayed another whole forty-five minutes for him. His best friends. His bestest, _bestest_ friends. His beautiful, bestest, _bestest_ friends.

Lance could feel a prickle of tears in his eyes.

"…Are you crying again?"

"Please don't. It's embarrassing enough that we were here when you screamed at the lunch lady."

Oh fuck. Whoops. Cue the shame and guilt!

Despite her words, Pidge was the first one who'd approached him. She held out her binder in front of her, and Lance could see his doodle tucked Inside the front plastic cover. It was colored in with blue and green and yellow, with large sweeps of black for the eternal vacuum of space.

"I got your note," Pidge said, smiling large and bright. Then she tackled him with a hug.

He returned the embrace, winding his arms tight around her shoulders and tucking her head into his chest. "Love you too, Pidge," he said into her hair.

Suddenly, he felt them being lifted up above the ground.

"GROUP HUG!" Hunk shouted, his strong arms wrapping around them both and picking them up with the all the ease of a superpowered hero. "Aw, we're the best, you guys," he crooned.

Pidge's response was a bubbly laugh and another bright smile.

Lance himself was grinning broadly, his chest fit to busting from the sheer joy he was feeling. It was one part emotional overload and one part "I stayed in a basement for over six hours!" that got him pumping two fists in the air with a victorious _WHOOO!_ Then he was hit with a brilliant, _beautiful_ , and _perfect_ idea, like _damn_ , son.

"Guys!" He wriggled out of the hug like a caterpillar emerging from its chrysalis. "Guys, guys, guys. We should get ice cream. We _need_ ice cream. We're, like, already celebrating anyway, right?"

Hunk laughed while Pidge rolled her eyes.

"Sorry, brah." Hunk landed his whole arm around his shoulders. "We banned you from having sugar after three, remember?"

"But food is a good idea," Pidge chimed, stuffing her binder into her bag. "Let's grab a burger or something. I'm starving."

"YES!" "Sounds good, Pidge"

Lance let Pidge take his arm as the three of them made their way to the Beast. As he walked between Hunk and Pidge, letting the two of them choose the closest burger joint by their school, he agreed, quite happily, that today hadn't been so bad after all.

"Hey, Lance?" Pidge chirped once they'd settled on a location. "What's this I hear about your unrequited bromance with Keith?"

 _FFFFFFFFFFFFF_ —

He was never gonna catch a break, was he?

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

 **END NOTES:**

 **(1)** In New York City, a MetroCard is used to board buses and trains. It is a pre-paid, rechargeable card you can buy at most train stations and some convenience stores. There are several payment plans and other options too, like the new "charge-as-you-swipe" MetroCard.

 **(2)** The Tatopoulos triplets' names are: Steven, Ivan, and Evan, with Steven being the "older" of the three. Steven is Vance's best friend (aka Sidekick #1) and is a quarterback. Evan hangs out with Angelo and Antonio; they're on the basketball team together.

 **(3)** His name is DiGiacomo :V

 **(4)** Rival-bros is a coffee shop in Philly, PA. Keith has lived in this particular area before, and assumes this is what Lance is talking about. I highly recommend this place!

 **(5)** There's a high school in Queens that has been overcrowded for years, and students over the years have nicknamed the hallways. There's "42nd Avenue," which is the main hallway, there's a "Grand Central Terminal" in the lobby by the auditorium (though, this one might actually from a different school), and a "Times Square" in one of the hall with all the vending machines by the school's indoor gyms. Unfortunately, "Times Square" has been renamed to "Dead Square" once the school got rid of all its vending machines. Though, recently, I heard some vending machines came back. (The name hasn't though).

 **(6)** The song described here is "Jupiter, Bringer of Jollity," composed by Gustav Holst. It is the central part of a larger orchestral piece, called The Planets, and the original symbolism of this piece will be recreated in this fic.

 **(7)** "You actually don't need a graphing program for vector integral problems, but some in particular are a lot easier to figure out if you graph them…" says my friend who took Calculus III. I honestly have no idea myself. (I couldn't understand her explanations; this is actually just a gist. Please correct me if I'm wrong OTL)

 **(8)** The title of the fake space article was inspired by this article. In naming the space shuttle, I followed NASA's traditional naming conventions of naming shuttles after ships of famous explorers. Victoria-2 is named after the only surviving ship from Ferdinand Magellan's circumnavigation during the 16th Century. Victoria-2 was named with the hopes of a successful voyage to and from the ends of the solar system, and in honor of Victoria, the first shuttle that was sent to Kerberos but was lost. NASA does not allow spacecrafts to have the same names, but I AIN'T NASA AND THIS IS MY FIC, SO FUCK CONVENTIONS. :)

Herbert Wade is the Sky Marshall from the Voltron Force series. Space Marshall Graham and Commander Steele are from Voltron: Defender of the Universe series; only their surnames appear in canon, so I gave named them William and Landon, respectively.

Shiro was not on the Kerberos flight for reasons that will be shared later.


	4. YOLO

He never knew _The Strokes_ existed until he tried learning how to play the guitar from one of his uncles. That happened six years ago, and it's what plunged him into an ocean of music he's never swam in before _—_ one that wasn't about sick bass drops, dope twirls, and shrill screams of _"apaga esa mierda!"_ from his mom in the early AM hours.

Man, those were _not_ the days.

His fingertips were still calloused from those lessons, which meant he was unnaturally loud whenever he tapped on tables and desks and shit.

Like right now!

 _"Some people think they're always right — others are quiet and uptight,"_ Julian Casablancas sang into his ears. _"Others they seem so very nice nice nice nice nice nice — ohh-ho — Inside they might feel sad and wrong — oh no…"_ **(1)**

Lance carried the beat of the song with his hand, tapping out the snare drum on the table as his foot pedaled the bass on the floor. His head bobbed up and down to the catchy guitar riff, the only thing that could keep his perky "good morning" attitude alive. And he needed it alive to stay good — which, whenever he was involved, was synonymous to 'focused' — because he had a doctor's appointment this lovely Wednesday morning. The irony of jamming out to a song called "You Only Live Once" while in the waiting room of a clinic was _killing_ him.

He started laughing internally, but it didn't quite work out as well as he thought because he started feeling his shoulders and chest shake and gee whiz, didn't he seem like such an upstanding member of society today? Sure! That's why people were looking at him, right? TOTALLY!

Fuck.

"Sorry," he said to complete strangers, the corners of his mouth still twitching because hey! You only live once, that's why we're all here, right? "Sorry, it's just— it's a funny song. Sorry."

The only one who didn't seem all razzled at his sudden laughing fit was the kid playing on a tablet. _Pow, pow, pow,_ went the laser guns in the game. Orrrr, maybe it was more like _PBHOW, PBHOW, PBHOW WHIRRRR_ — _PBHOW_. Oh! How about _pchew, pchew, pchew!_ — tinny, little noises that came from those smaller, handheld laser guns for, like, spies or whatever. Then the heavy gunners would thunder in with giant blast cannons and go _BLAM BLAM BLAM_ , and then the good guys would win and everybody could go home to 99-cent apple pies and pool the rest of the money for Big Macs.

Lance had no idea why he thought secret agent spies would need to pool money for McDonalds. They probably wouldn't even go for Micky D's, anyway. They were probably more of a falafel crowd.

"Pshhew, Pshhew, Pshhew!" The kid's own rendition of laser gun sounds brought Lance back to the waiting room. Then he gasped and clenched the tablet in his lap. "Mama, look! The unicorn turned into a robot! Isn't that cool?"

"Yes, robot unicorns are cool," his mom absently confirmed as she flipped a page in her book. She glanced at him. "Jack, not so close to the screen. Arm's length, remember?"

"Okay, mama."

Lance felt himself smile as he watched the mother drop a kiss on the kid's head. It reminded him of when Constanza hauled him to the doctor's all those years ago. It was one of the many moments he got to have Constanza all to himself as a child, and there were many precious moments in those memories that made it easy to recall. And also, being dragged outside your house at 8 AM right in the middle of your favorite show when you were eight totally constituted as childhood trauma, so _of course_ he'd remember. Or not remember. Maybe he was remembering it wrong. Trauma could do that, right? Yeah. Yeah, it could — selective memory, and all that jazz. So if he had selective memory… Was he not remembering something from his childhood?!

…Jesus Christ, he needed to chill.

Lance pulled a face and shook his head, just as the lady next to him sneezed wetly into a tissue.

"Aaa… AACHOOO!"

Now it was her turn to seem like such an upstanding member of society.

The woman sniffled and Lance could hear it unclogging thick mucus from her sinuses. Ew.

"It's allergies, I swear," she nasalled. "I'm not sick." She sneezed again.

Lance glanced at her red nose and watery eyes and that miserable crease in her brow and kind of just… scooched over one seat. Allergies or not, he wasn't gonna take any chances. He hated being sick; that meant Rodrigo had to take care of him, and Rodrigo was the worst family nurse ever. Well, only for him. Everyone else didn't seem to have a problem.

His YOLO rock anthem passed and a soft track by the Beatles came on, telling Jude to _"take a sad soooong, and make it behtterrr…"_ Over this he heard a deep, heavy sigh coming from the man sitting one seat over from robot unicorn's biggest fan. The man was sitting with his phone out and staring into space, brows furrowed on his downcast face. He looked lost. Lance hoped the man was okay.

"Lance Castillo?"

He shot up, startling the allergy woman and robot unicorn kid's mom. "Sorry," he said, and quickly shuffled out of the little space in the corner of the waiting room to get to the girl who called his name. She was cute. He was gonna tell her that, but he saw the stern, focused look she was giving the papers on her clipboard and thought, oh, wow, she's really into this.

"Come with me, please," said the girl, looking up at him briefly (wow, her eyebrows were on fleek; _fleeker_ than fleek, damn) and he followed her all the way down the right corridor. They passed a few rooms and one of them caught his eye. It was the one with a closed, black door. The card on the wall next to it read "Linda Ohm, M.D., Internal Medicine."

"Dr. Ohm is finishing up with a patient. I just need to measure your height, weight, and blood pressure. Step up on the scale, please?"

Lance did as he was told, getting down to the end of the hall and entering a smaller room where there was a height-weight measure and blood-drawing equipment and gauzes and bandages and _—_

"On the scale, please," the girl said, a little louder this time.

"My bad, uhhh," he caught the name on her tag, "Stacy. Sorry, Stacy." He stepped onto the scale

"That's alright."

Lance's eyes followed the white bar the assistant was sliding down the beam. He watched her make the proper adjustments, inching the bar here and there, until it finally perched on a notch that balanced out the entire beam. He waited forever for her to take down the measurements. Finally, she pointed to a chair off to the side. "Sit here. I'm going to take your blood pressure."

He sat down on the plastic chair, watching her set the clipboard down and pick up a BP monitor from a shelf near the counter. She fitted the sleeve on his arm and strapped it on, then started the machine and looked intently at the screen. He felt the sleeve squeeze tight around his bicep, and he tried very hard not to flex it or do some other stupid shit because Stacy right now looked really, really into doing her job.

Good for her, he thought. He hoped she got to be a doctor, or an RN, or whatever it was she wanted to do.

Stacy scribbled some notes down. "Your blood pressure is normal," she said, as she ripped the velcro off his sleeve and put the BP monitor away. "Wait right here. Dr. Ohm will see you when she's ready."

"Sure thing." Then he winked at her. Because COME ON, man, he _had_ to! She was fleeker than fleek and totally driven. His genes were screaming at him: 10/10 would totally bang, have awesome kids, sent them to Ivys, and be successful. Yaaas.

Stacy was too busy making final notes on her clipboard to notice his good looks and charm, though. She left without even a proper goodbye. Tear. Lance said farewell to her in his head.

He was alone in the room and was quiet for all of ten seconds until he opened the door all the way, dragged his chair with him, and parked his ass right in the doorway. Because _damn,_ waiting in a room full of medical supplies? LANCE waiting in a room full of MEDICAL SUPPLIES? With NO SUPERVISION? Hell to the fucking _no_. What if he blew something up? Could you even do that? Was that possible if all you had were BP monitors, empty syringes, urine testing kits, and… whatever the fuck that pink stuff in these cabinets were? What was this? Was it Pepto Bismol? Aw, he hated that stuff _—_

Oh, shit, shit, _shit—_

Lance closed the cabinets and jumped back into his seat, kept himself anchored to the chair by firmly grasping the edge of his seat on both sides with an iron-fisted grip. He decided to stare straight ahead, right down the hall and just… watched the interns and patients as they marched up and down the corridor.

He knew without seeing the tags on the wall where each doctor's office was. He'd been here for a long time, after all; this was where Constanza and his mom went. Often, he tagged along to translate, or because they were gonna go to Costco or Target or Marshall's and needed him to haul stuff off the shelves, into the cart, out of the cart, into the trunk, out of the trunk, into the house, hold this, hold that, _"does this make me look fat?"_

It was hard being the oldest son in a house of five other women around. At least he had his dad; he totes always got him. Oh, and Rodrigo and Diego too. They were aiight.

JK, he loved them all; his family was beautiful and thus _he_ was a product of beauty. Which is why he was so irresistible.

Except to Stacy.

Aaaand to Nyma.

…And Kayla, and Vanessa, and Rhonda, and Angie, and _—_

Fuck. There were a lot more. Damn. Whatever, HIS FAMILY WAS STILL BEAUTIFUL.

The sound of a door opening grabbed his attention immediately.

An elderly Asian woman stepped out with another woman her age. They exchanged greetings in another language and bowed respectfully. The tall woman in the office returned the bow, and the two women walked down the hall together, arms linked at the elbows.

The tall woman looked down the hallway, first to watch the two women go, and then at him. She smiled his way, then stared at him with pursed lips.

"Why are you sitting in the doorway?"

Lance blew his cheeks out as he thought of the best response. "I… didn't wanna mess anything up?"

The tall woman raised both eyebrows, then laughed. "Alright, Lance. Come inside. Put the chair back where it was, okay?"

"Okey-dokey, doctor Ohm-y."

Lance set the chair back where it was, got to Dr. Ohm's office, and stepped inside, stomach fluttering anxiously with butterflies.

* * *

The first time Lance spoke to Dr. Ohm was right after he turned eighteen and graduated from being doctored alongside kids with runny noses to being doctored alongside old people with runny noses. Rodrigo and Alexa were both with him that day, along with Constanza. All four of them had made quite the first impression.

 _"Ohm? That doesn't sound Chinese— Ow!"_

 _"Shut up, Rodrigo! She said she was Korean!"_

 _"Apacíguate, Alexa."_

 _"Wow, you're, like. A babe."_

 _"Lance, mijo, no hables."_

 _"…Lo siento, mami."_

He was pretty sure Dr. Ohm wouldn't mind if he suddenly switched PCPs. Especially after that one time he tipped over the entire stack of files on his way out of her office. There'd been a brand new penny on the floor of the hall and he _had_ to have it, and the floor was extra clean and slippery that day.

With the utmost care, Lance made a beeline for the black chair in her office, keeping an eye on his feet as they stepped one after the other and dropped him off. He took a seat and stared right in front of him and nowhere else. He had to be good _— focused —_ because this was going to be a very important conversation.

This last-minute doctor's appointment was his mother's doing, after all.

"Let's start off with reviewing your file," said Dr. Ohm, humming and pointing her finger down a sheet of paper. "Blood pressure is normal, and your height and weight haven't changed drastically. You did lose two pounds since your last time here… You've been eating regularly, right?"

Shit. "Yeah," he said with a grin. "I'm a growing boy, after all. Gotta stay healthy, you know?" He was lying straight through his teeth, holy shit, his mama would skewer him for lying about this. Fuck! And Constanza? Jesus, please.

"Good, good," said his oblivious doctor. She was looking through old records on file. "On your last visit, you said you had headaches and mood swings. Do you still experience these side effects?"

"Uh." Lance took a moment to think about it. "No, not really." Actually, he had no idea. Sometimes, he felt that he was too much to handle, even for Hunk. But he could never figure out if it was him or the meds.

Something told him it wasn't the meds.

"Do you feel more anxious lately?"

Lance chewed on his lip. He bounced his left leg as he gave the question some thought. Finally, he answered. "I… I don't think so."

"Do you have trouble sleeping?"

Lance snorted, leaning back in his seat and grinning. "Only when my sister sings in the room next door. She's completely tone deaf and has no idea."

Dr. Ohm gave him an amused look. "Alexa doesn't seem to be the type."

Lance scoffed. "Oh, not her. I was talking about Mia."

Dr. Ohm laughed. "Just a few more questions, alright?"

"Sure thing, doc."

"Do you feel tired more than you usually do?"

LOL, went Lance's ADHD brain. Him? Tired? Whaaat? His thoughts continued like this, whipping up a storm.

"Or experience a sudden loss of energy throughout the day?"

Lance didn't reply immediately. He felt a cyclone whirring madly in his head, all the answers trapped inside. "Sometimes," he finally said. "Usually after something happens."

"Can you describe that for me?"

The cyclone in his head wouldn't stop. He fought with himself in pulling out the answers. "Just… stuff. Like, when I get upset, or whatever. You know."

"I see," Dr. Ohm said, nodding. She was looking at him with a clear, focused gaze. "Does it happen frequently?"

"I-I guess?" His brain was stuttering. With a sudden halt, the cyclone died, and so did everything else. "I don't know. Maybe." He pressed his hands against his eyes. "Are we almost done?"

"We are," Dr. Ohm said. When Lance dropped his hands, Dr. Ohm was smiling gently again. "I appreciate you going through all these questions, Lance. Thank you."

"Sure," he said, because he really didn't know what else there was to say to that. His brain was dead.

Dr. Ohm flipped through the pages in his file. "It seems like Strattera is working for you, according to what you've been telling me this past year. You had a rough start when we switched your dosage in the beginning of the year."

Lance thought about eighth grade. "It wasn't that bad," he said, honestly.

Dr. Ohm smiled. "You'll continue to make progress as long as you remember to stay in the regimen."

LOL, said his brain again, NO WONDER YOU'RE FUCKED IN THE HEAD. YOU CAN'T FOLLOW BASIC INSTRUCTIONS!

"…Lance?"

Lance put on the brightest smile he could manage. "Sorry, blanked out there for a sec. But, uh. Yeah, I totally remember to take my meds. Always."

Dr. Ohm's face turned serious. "Staying on your regimen is very important, Lance."

He maintained his shit-eating grin because HE CAN'T FOLLOW BASIC INSTRUCTIONS! L! O! L!

"You can set an alarm on your phone. Some of my patients have shared that doing that helps."

Lance ignored the strain in his cheeks from keeping his smile. "Sure. I'll _—_ I'll be sure to do that."

"Would you like me to set it for you?"

Lance shot out of his seat. "Nope! Nope, that is _—_ that is all right, ma'am, I can _—_ I can take it from here. Is that all? That's all, right? I can go now? I still got class and I really, _really_ don't wanna miss my English Lit class. 'Cause it's _lit,_ haha."

Dr. Ohm didn't reply. She just stared quietly at him, reminding him too much of how Alexa looked at him at breakfast the day before, right before she said _—_

"Take care of yourself, Lance."

 _—I'm worried about you._

He felt his hands clench and unclench at his sides. "I will."

Dr. Ohm sent him a soft smile. Lance turned away and left her office. The door clicked shut behind him. The hallway was quiet. Down the corridor, the room he'd gotten his measurements taken and his blood pressure checked had its door closed. He could hear voices murmuring inside; conversational voices, nothing accusatory, like _"Oh my god, what happened in here?"_ or _"Who ate all the vitamin gummies?"_ He felt happy about himself, a smidgen of pride tickling him pink from the inside out, because he hadn't broken anything and the files were still in Dr. Ohm's office.

Satisfied, Lance sighed. A heavy weight lifted off his chest, and he felt that, yeah, everything was gonna be okay. He was doing okay.

Lance turned around and walked right into Stacy, who yelped and dropped a tray of urine samples all over the floor.

And on his two-hundred and eighteen-dollar shoes.

Lance tried hard not to scream.

* * *

.

.

.

 **SPANISH TRANSLATIONS**

 **Apaga es mierda!  
** _Turn that shit off!_

 **Apacíguate, Alexa.  
** _Calm down, Alexa._

 **Lance, mijo, no hablar más.  
** _Lance, sweetie, don't talk._

* * *

.

.

.

 **END NOTES**

 **(1)** Lyrics to "You Only Live Once" by The Strokes. Lyrics found here; listen to the song here.


	5. Cryptids, Confirmed

Every day, thousands of people relied on public transportation to get them from Point A to Point B. And, to be honest, it wasn't all that bad. It only got bad when there's little stops and transfers to make in between. Cause once you started adding shit in between, that was basically like opening the door to every fucking possibility under the sun. Everyone knew that the more doors you got open, the more shit you got coming. That's just how life was.

Take this, for example — Wilson Darius? Linebacker for Varsity and head of the Chess Club? He's gotta take 2 trains and a bus just to get to school. And that kid's always late, no matter what, cause the green line his train ran on is the shittiest one of all. Plus, if the bus he needed to catch as soon as he got off the train re-routed because of construction or whatever and skipped the street where his train dropped him off at, that was another twenty minutes of walking he had to worry about.

See how that worked? Kinda like common sense. The more you gotta transfer, the more shit you open yourself up to, and the shittier your commute was gonna get. The simpler your commute, the less shit you open yourself up to, so the easier your commute.

Make sense? Yes? Okay.

So, then, how exactly was it that Lance, who only needed to take a single bus for forty-five minutes, ended up being the Chosen One to experience Murphy's Law in action?

Shamelessly, Lance repeatedly knocked the back of his head against the window his seat was positioned in front of. He found rather quickly that hitting the back of your head against a hard surface wasn't as effective as hitting your forehead against it, nor was muttering prayers to every saint his mother's ever spoken about. Nothing he did wiped away the tragedy that was the Great Delay his bus was trapped in after Soccer Mom Helen rear-ended her goddamn mini-van into the front bumper of his bus.

"Oh my god!" Helen or Karen or whatever the fuck her name was had cried. "My car!"

 _My life!_ He, too, had cried, and proceeded to bang the back of his head against the window.

Which brings everyone right back to the Question of the Day — Exactly how was it that Lance, who only needed to take one bus, ended up on a shitty commute on the very same day that Wilson fucking Darius actually made it to school on time? Bitch, how?

 **PIDGE  
** _its so lit  
_ _dr. li did a fucking dab cause darius came on time to class  
_ _how the fuck he here and you ain't  
_ _whatt he fuck man_

Yes, Pidge, Lance thought as he hit his head against the window one last time, what the fuck indeed.

Lance sat through thirty minutes of waiting for cops to come, waiting for cops to interview Soccer Mom Janice and the bus driver, waiting for cops to take pictures of the accident, and waiting for the sweet, sweet release of death.

"Hey, mister," spoke a shrill voice, a tug pulling on his shirt sleeve. It was some kid in a bold, red and white outfit with white knit Adidas sneakers. The kid had a missing front tooth and holding a red box of Honest Kids Organic Juice. Damn, kid, he thought, even your juice box matched. **(1)**

Lance flashed a bright smile. "How you doin', little man?" he asked, raising his fist in greeting. His smile widened when the kid did one of those slow-mo nods and bumped his fist with his tiny hand.

"Nothin' much," said the kid with a shrug. "Can I asks you a question?"

"Sure."

A lady sitting next to the kid looked up from her book and turned their way, raising her sunglasses off her face and revealing to the whole fucking world that she was a hot little mama, fuck, shit, daaAAAAaaaammmn—

"Ny, don't bother the young man."

The kid frowned. "I ain't botherin' nobody."

"Hey," Lance waved at the lady with an appeasing smile, "it's alright. I don't mind. I'm used to kids asking questions all the time—I got a kid brother back home."

The lady turned back to her book (were those _flames_ on that cover?) and flicked her sunglasses back onto her face. "If you say so."

Lance turned back to the kid, who was looking at him with bright eyes. "What's up, little man? What's your question?"

"Why your shoes so whack? They smell like piss."

Lance's smile froze on his face.

"Nyzell!" cried the lady, so loud and sudden that it scared the fucking piss right out of his sneakers, holy _fuck._ "What I say about openin' your mouth like that?"

"He was askin' me what my question was!"

Wow, kid, you fresh as fuck but you also a fucking snitch in the making, ain'cha? Tryna toss the blame on somebody else? Relax, son — You're still a baby with a juice box, bruh; step back and chill for a sec.

"You know you got no business asking people stuff like that!" the lady shouted, sounding _exactly_ like his own big sis would if that kid were him. His body sank into his seat because _damn_ — this was some serious throwback for a Thursday. "Boy, you know you were raised better than that, so don't you try an' tell me you don't know what I'm talkin' about. So you shut your mouth."

"Yes, Zaniyah."

"And you—" The lady used the spine of her book to point at him, making him recoil because holy _shit_ that was a big ass book. "Don't you be chattin' up my kid brother like you our family. I got enough already to keep an eye on. I ain't got no time to watch you, too, so don't you be startin' anything funny."

Lance shut himself the fuck up.

With click of her tongue, the lady leaned back in her seat and went back to her book. He saw the cover again, saw the black softcover front worn at the edges, the corners curled and greying. There was no tape on the spine, so he wondered if it was a personal copy. It seemed well read.

Also looking at the cover was the fresh prince of the second grade, who looked mildly interested but kept his mouth clamped shut because that's what his sister told him to do.

Poor kid, he thought. He just wanted to know why Lance's shoes were sopping wet and smelled like piss. The kid had no idea he was talking to a spazz with the attention span of a grain of uncooked rice in the stomach of a pigeon that, in large quantities would surely mean a horrible, horrible death. Was that even real? Or was it an urban legend? He wasn't heartless enough to try, but, y'know, he was really curious about it and he really wanted to find out and, well, if trying it out was the only way to, you know, educate himself, then OH WELL, you know?

Shit, why the fuck was he thinking about this again? What made him imagine little puffball city-birds exploding in the middle of the park? Not that he didn't think about explosions and stuff quite often. He thought about explosions a lot. Big ones, that kind that comes after you jerk meat after a week of going without any stim so it all comes gushing out like—

HELLO, WELCOME TO POLITE SOCIETY! MY NAME IS LANCE, AND YOU ARE?

Some kind of slight movement caught his attention (thank god) away from the stupidity inside his head. When he turned his head, he saw the kid looking real intently at his shoes. And Lance was kind of, sort of — uh, what's the word…? Conflicted.

See, part of him was annoyed at the fact that this little chucklefuck here had the audacity — THE AUDACITY! — to call him out on his pissed-on sneakers in front of the ENTIRE WORLD crammed into this bus (which had, like, ten people). But part of him also _got him,_ y'know? He understood where the kid was coming from; he was that kind of kid, years ago. And — let's be real, now — he still kind of was. Seeing somebody wearing sneakers that looked like they were dipped in a puddle of lukewarm piss would make anybody curious (yeah, you'd be curious too, don't lie), so he totally got why the kid wanted to know. And yeah, maybe the kid came about it the wrong way — cause he's a kid; he was like what, four? — but the kid was sharp and had a good set of eyes cause he noticed things and asked questions and could talk pretty damn well. Not all kids were socially developed enough to be bold and daring and ask shit like that, especially not to strangers.

Alexa and Rodrigo had been quiet kids. Same with Mia and Sophia, and even little Diego. But him? Lance had a motormouth growing up. And, believe it or not, so did Emilio. He and his brother were a lot alike, actually. It was probably why it took so long for them to figure out how to get along.

And Constanza? Constanza never really got the chance to be a little kid. It was probably why everybody except their parents kinda looked at her like she'd never really understand them, 'cause, well, in a way… she kinda wouldn't.

The kid by his side pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, staring with eyes still holding a million questions that probably included questions like, "How the heck did this guy ruin those Jordans like that?" and "Did he try to wash them out? Is that why they're soaking wet?" and "Is he ever gonna get 'em back to new?"

He knew that, no matter what, this was probably gonna be something the kid wondered about even in college — that weird mister on the bus with pissed-on sneakers worth almost three big ones. And he knew he had to give the kid an answer. He just had to.

Lance looked dead ahead and whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Psst. _Hey."_ A quick side glance told him the kid was paying attention. He waited half a second, during which he eyed the lady to make sure she hadn't heard him and kept her nose in her book before explaining his situation. "I'm an undercover cop. I was chasing after some guy when he pushed me into a puddle of—"

"I _thought_ I told you not to start nothin'."

Lance's back went ramrod straight. "Yes, ma'am."

He spent an hour on the bus sitting just as quietly as Kid G, and just as quietly as he'd done back when he was also just a little kid sitting on the bus next to his big sister on the way home from the rest of the world.

* * *

You know, the fact that it was the middle of the school day and still no security guard at the front desk really said a lot about how much the city actually cared about their kids.

Lance stared at the alarmingly empty chair and immaculate work station. Usually, there'd be a visitor log and blanks rolls of lime-green " SCHOOL VISITOR" stickers at the ready, and a blinking green light at the scanner where you'd swipe your ID through to gain entry. That thing took attendance so that the rest of the school could focus on more important things, like making sure teachers were on time and that the subs, if any, knew who they were covering for the day and where to go.

The fact that the scanner was still blinking green at this time of day was bad. The scanner was supposed to be offline at 9:30 AM. That was the latest you could enter the building without getting your ear chewed off by Martha from Attendance, who you only saw if you were late as fuck or high off your ass, cause Martha was the one who called parents if you were caught with weed or something else mad dumb. **(1)**

Or, you know. So he heard.

Seriously, that's what he heard. Lance didn't do drugs, if, haha, that's what you were thinking. He'd never do weed.

Anymore. He had _one_ blunt, back in the tenth grade at some dude's party, but that was totally it, honest! He never did weed again, except maybe that one time in eleventh grade when he had space brownies— But that was an _accident;_ that _totally_ didn't count—!

TRANSITION TIME! _T!_ To the _R!_ To the _A-N-S-I, T-I-O-N! T! To the R! To the- To the- To the- Hit it, Fergie!_

Transitions! Boy, were they important! They let you know that you were moving from one subject to the next, forever leaving the old topic behind to die and be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.

He wondered if the security guard was high, somewhere. Would Martha call her parents? Did Martha have the number to the security guard's parents? Probably. Martha was cool like that. And by cool, he meant the kind of cool you'd be if there was ice in your veins. Like a snake.

Martha was one mean old lady. She was a million years old and had the face of a shriveled prune and horn-rimmed glasses with bright yellow thread at the ends to keep them around her neck at all times since, you know. She was ancient and always forgot where anything was.

Unless it was your parent's number. She never forgot that.

…Okay, he was exaggerating. Martha wasn't that bad. She was just old and Tired. Kinda like every junior in high school three or four months into the school year.

Lance pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and swiped his school ID through the scanner. Then, he leaned over the counter of the security desk and peered down at the computer monitor to see what it said.

LANCE CHRISTIAN RUIZ-MEND | 03/02/17 11:47 AM  
OSIS#: 562478291 | OC19/S6 **(2)**

He tapped on the photo of his adorable freshman self smiling shyly on the monitor. "Hey, you," he crooned, "Look at how sexy you get in just three years' time. You're a godawful sin, I tell ya." He kissed the palm of his hand and pressed it to his face on the monitor before hopping back down and brushing his clothes off.

"Hello, Lance," spoke a dreadful voice that could only belong to one teacher.

 _FFFFFFFFFFFF—_

Lance turned around.

It was Mr. SUCKMYDICK.

He died.

"Hi, Mr. Brodsky," he greeted from the afterlife.

Brodsky frowned, gesturing towards Lance with a black thermos. "Did you forget to set your alarm again? Don't tell me this is a regular thing with you this year. We can't have our valedictorian flunking out on us, not after we already ordered the medals to be engraved."

Lance kept his mouth shut for a second before responding, something Hunk would've been proud of had he been here. "I had a doctor's appointment."

Brodsky's big bushy eyebrows shot up high on his face. "Oh. Oh, that's right, you're— I'm sorry. You're a serious student, Lance. I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," Lance said, frowning at Brodsky's obvious discomfort.

Brodsky sighed, running a hand through his thick, unruly hair. "How are you?" he asked, the words sounding like they came purely out of obligation. "Is everything okay? I heard you got into a fight with the new student a few days ago. That's not like you at all."

What? Really? Him? Getting into a fight with another kid over something petty? Him? Yeeeaaah, that wasn't like him at all, hahahhaa—

Quit sucking up, bro, it ain't giving you brownie points.

Lance shrugged. "Yeah, we're cool, now. I think." He hesitated, wondering if that was a lie. He thought back to their time in the SAVE room, the irritated looks Keith had directed toward him each time he scraped the chair against the floor by accident or tapped his pen for too long. Then he thought about the note that kind of, sort of became their bridge. He thought about the small smile on Keith's face after he'd thanked him. He wondered if one teeny smile was enough for him to tell Mr. Brodsky that they were on good terms. He wondered if Mr. Brodsky even knew why they fought in the first place.

It really rubbed him the wrong way, how cordial and nonchalant Brodsky was being right now. Especially considering how the guy practically pulled the rug right from under his feet as soon as his dreams were within reach, and let Keith barrel over him to get to the prize. It's like he had no fucking idea how important the Galaxy Garrison trip was. He'd spent two entire years sacrificing hundreds of hours helping the guy clean and set up lab equipment, take care of that stupid turtle that always tried to bite his finger off even if Lance was the one who fed it day in and day out, and even got Brodsky's fucking face on EdWeek's spread about _'NYC's Teacher of the Year!'_ last year. **(3)**

"Lance?"

"Hm?" Lance felt his head jerk up.

Mr. Brodsky was looking at him funny. "You okay there?" his teacher asked. "You spaced out for a little there."

Lance nodded. "Everything's fine, sir." Then, he smiled.

Mr. Brodsky frowned. He looked awkwardly side to side, then looked back down at him. "You know, Lance, I… I never did tell you why I couldn't keep you on the Galaxy Garrison trip, did I?"

Lance almost choked. _Nnnope!_ said his brain, _nope, nope, nope, nope, nopenopenopenope—_ _NOOOOOOO THANK YOU, GOODBYE!_

Lance turned on his heel and shoved his way into the school.

* * *

After crying like a little bitch in the bathroom for ten minutes, Lance re-emerged as the beautiful butterfly he was and floated down the hallway to the Attendance office, where the mean old lady with shit memory for anything but kids' parents' phone numbers lay in her nest.

Mrs. Martha Goodman was wearing thick spectacles and sniffling when he walked in the office. The old lady stopped what she was typing and looked up, squinting hard at the doorway. Her expression fell flat. "Oh," she just said, going back to her work, "Your ma called this morning about you. Just drop off the doctor's note on my desk."

Lance eyed the flood of papers scattered all across the top of Martha's desk. "Uh," he said, "Where, exactly?"

"Anywhere," she snapped, waving her hand at him. In the process, two pieces of paper fluttered off her desk and fell. "Shit," said Martha, muttering as she pushed away from the desk. a horrid screeching sound as the legs of her chair screeched against the old floorboards, and groaning as she bent down to grab the papers. As her wrinkled hand slapped against the back of one sheet, the second one flipped over and skidded a few inches away from the sheer force of the old lady's spanking hand coming down on some kid's absence note.

He had no idea if that was her spanking hand. It sure looked and sounded like it was.

Politely, Lance stepped forward to get the other sheet of paper. "I got it."

Martha gave a wheezing groan as she sat back up, the bones of her back cracking as she moved. The sheet of paper she'd retrieved was crumbled victoriously in her spanking hand. She scowled and snatched the paper Lance had picked up as soon as he held it out in front of her. "If you were gonna get it, you could've just told me. Making me crouch on the floor… Kids, these days. Unbelievable."

Lance grinned, handing her his doctor's note. "But I'm still your favorite, right?"

Martha's brows pinched together. "Get outta here, you," she scowled, taking the note from him and using it to rap the back of his hand. "You're nobody's favorite, y'hear?"

"Loooud and clear, Martha," said Lance, grinning as he walked backwards to the door of the office.

"That's 'Mrs. Goodman,' to you."

Lance waved. "Have a good day, Mrs. Martha," he said, opening the door for himself.

The old lady looked up with dead look. "…Close enough," she grunted, bowing her head to the chaos at her desk. Immediately, the room filled with the sound of clacking keys as Martha went back to work. "Don't come back here, Lance! Not until graduation!"

"Nah," Lance grinned, "You'd miss me too much."

Martha gave a barking laugh. "Not on your life!"

Lance shut the door and left with a smile on his face.

See? Not that bad.

You just had to know how to talk to her.

* * *

The world, for once, felt normal.

Wow, gee, Lance — great observation you're making there, hurrhurr. That's _totally_ specific and relatable and All Of The Above.

HAHA, I KNOW, RIGHT?

Aight, but that was valid. Your point, your point.

By 'normal,' what he meant was… Slow. Everything was slow. Not slow like molasses, but slow like — like water. Like when you turned the tap on, just slightly, and got that trickle of water. It didn't stay that way — normal people never just stay at one setting. People vary 'em, changing the flow of water, increasing and decreasing the pressure, to fit into their environment.

That's what it was like. That's how he felt right now. He felt like the faucet in his head was fixed so he could turn it on and off, to however little or however much he needed. That was what he meant by normal. Because that's what normal felt like; that was what it was supposed to feel like.

But that wasn't _his_ normal. _His_ normal was a waterfall, _his_ normal was a whirlwind; it was a hurricane and a tornado jamming it up in his head — _that_ was _his_ normal. And he liked it, sometimes, because that way he spent only a fraction of the time thinking about everything he wanted to think about compared to when he was at everyone else's normal. The problem was that, well… Nobody could follow him at his normal. And it wasn't their fault, or anything; it's like when you're trying to run after a bus you missed. Sometimes, the driver stopped and let you on, if he could. But most times, the driver's got no clue you're tryna keep up; they just go and leave you behind, and you're left standing there in the middle of a storm thinking — What the hell, man? What the hell?

"What the hell're you doing here, man?"

At the sound of that voice, Lance's eyes shot open to a shrimp-turned-bigger-shrimp wearing an oversized track hoodie that made it seem like they were nothing but a giant blue blob with a head and two legs. "Hey, Clyde. How's it like being a freshman? Not too bad, right?" **(4)**

Clyde snorted. "Except for the moronic cisshits in class, it's not too bad, I guess."

The comment by the track team's new baby star made him frown. "Nobody's bothering you again, are they?"

Clyde shrugged. "I don't care about that anymore, but thanks. And that wasn't what I meant." Clyde pointed to the door Lance was sitting next to. "It's the guys in that class. They're so… dumb."

Lance laughed, then toned it down to a snigger because they were in the middle of the school day and every teacher in the building seemed to have the uncanny ability to recognize his voice from any part of the school. "Don't worry, man," he said at last, watching Clyde's face turn sour. "You get used to it."

Clyde rolled their eyes. "I don't wanna get used to it. I wanna have real conversations, not listen to their bullshit all day. Here, I'll show you what I mean. I'll leave the door open a crack. Listen to 'em, okay?"

Lance touched his index finger to his thumb and splayed the rest of his fingers out. "O-K, kiddo. I'll tune in real good."

Clyde heaved a long suffering sigh, then pulled out a plastic dinosaur from the from pocket of their hoodie. Scribbled along the long neck of the plastic figurine were the words, _HALL PASS — ELENA ARROYO._ Clyde turned the doorknob and stepped into the classroom.

Almost immediately, Lance knew exactly what the problem was.

 _"…can't say that Gilgamesh was gay just because he kissed a guy_ ," said a voice he didn't recognize. " _t doesn't even say how they kissed!"_

 _"Yeah,"_ another voice said, _"that's important. Changes everything."_

 _"And yeah, wasn't it a cultural greeting back then?"_

 _"French people do it, too."_

 _"See? That's what I meant right there!"_

Lance's eyes widened just a bit. _That_ was Alexa's voice. She continued relentlessly.

 _"You're using a contemporary viewpoint to analyze a behavior that was recorded over two thousand years ago. Don't you realize you're changing the meaning with that kind of thinking?"_

Someone snickered. _"Someone's hot for the gays."_

A chorus of chuckling filled the room.

Alexa was livid.

 _"Are you serious right now?! You think this is a joke?"_

 _"No, but you bring gay shizz into every class we talk about._ Shizz, _Mrs. Arroyo, I said_ shizz."

 _"I'm bringing in an analysis_ _supported by evidence of romantic subtext into an academic discussion. This isn't just 'gay shizz,' this is important and impactful and_ highly relevant _to how teens_ and _adults and even kids view the world now! Besides, you didn't hear me complaining when you were talking about how, when Enkidu was getting it on with Shamhat for six days and nights, that that was an example of how patriarchal cultures use sexual prowess as a symbol of masculinity and power."_

A soft murmur went through the classroom.

 _"Hey, she's got a point."_

 _"Yeah, that sounds unfair."_

 _"Wasn't it six days and seven nights?"_

 _"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute—"_ said the guy from before, _"That has nothing to do with what you're saying—"_

 _"Oh, really, now?"_

 _"Besides, that just proves the fact that Enkidu wasn't gay. What gay man is gonna have sex with a hot temple priestess for a week straight?"_

 _"You know,"_ chimed a voice Lance recognized belonged to Mandy Parker, _"There are different kinds of sexualities, right? It's not just straight or gay. It's never been."_

 _"I never said sexuality was straight or gay,"_ said douchebag of the year, _"I just said Enkidu can't be gay, and that Gilgamesh and Enkidu can't be a thing if one of the two weren't gay."_

 _"Wow,"_ drawled Clyde's deadpan voice, _"bisexuals are cryptids, confirmed."_

The class laughed.

 _"Also,"_ Clyde continued, _"you're forgetting that there are hundreds of historians currently interpreting the subtext of Gilgadu in—"_

 _"I'm sorry,"_ the guy Alexa had been arguing with interrupted, _"Gilga-what?"_

 _"That's the ship name, don't hate. Anyway, there are hundreds of historians researching the homoerotic tones in that ship—"_

 _"Tones!"_ the guy from before emphasized loudly. _"Homoerotic_ tones! _That means it's not legit!"_

Clyde spoke over him, _"—and concluding that, in our modern world, Gilgamesh and Enkidu would totally be accepted as canon."_

 _"Thank you!"_ Alexa cried. _"Finally! Someone who gets it!"_

Another voice Lance didn't recognize suddenly jumped in. _"Yeah, but. Clyde's not into stuff like that. How's he— I mean, how are_ they _supposed to know?"_

 _"I'm asexual, not stupid."_

 _"Whoa, hang on, I didn't say you were—"_

 _"It's quite interesting, isn't it, how drastically different perspectives can be over a period of time?"_ The inquiring voice of their teacher settled the class down at once. _"Ancient civilizations spoke openly of homosexual relationships, some even going so far as to claim it to be the more blessed union of any other."_

The class was quiet, listening attentively.

 _"It's true that the relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu isn't clear. Especially not when we haven't completed translations of the ancient text."_

 _"Yeah,"_ said Mandy, _"Didn't we just find a bunch of lines recently? Like, a few years ago?"_

 _"You're right on the money, Mandy. And I can see from some of your expressions that there are a lot more of you who did your homework this time around."_

The class laughed, as did Lance. She was always good at checking for that.

The bell rang, the tones bursting through the PA system and giving Lance a heart attack worth about two deaths.

 _"Shoot,"_ Mrs. Arroyo muttered, following by the sound of seemed to be someone snapping their fingers. _"I can't believe that's the bell already."_

The class filled with quiet murmurs.

 _"I thought we had a double period today." "No, that's on Wednesdays." "Damn, that blows."_

Mrs Arroyo clapped her hands. _"Alright, then, change of plans! You know how it goes. Mandy, can you get these questions on the board? My arthritis is killing me today…_

 _"Remember to write your name and today's date on the index cards! And the question is — are you ready, Mandy? Great! From a historical standpoint, the contemporary struggle to accept homoerotic tones in literature…"_

The question was swept away by the sounds of rushing feet and low chatter filling the hallways from the other classrooms. Lance picked himself up off the floor and, quietly, reached over to shut the door to Mrs. Arroyo's class so the freshmen students could finish up whatever it was in relative silence.

The crowds in the hall quickly doubled in size, packing up the area. Traffic congested when pairs of friends gradually built up to small groups that attached to the sides of the hallway like globs of cholesterol clogging up arteries.

There was a lot to be said about Mrs. Arroyo if an entire freshman class seconds away from lunch was willing to stay put until they were dismissed. Not all of them would do the work diligently, of course. Some of them would half-ass it and some of them would make something up on the spot, but nobody dared to leave without handing in at least a few words. And it wasn't like Mrs. Arroyo turned into a demon or anything like that if you didn't do you work. She wasn't anything like that. Kids just liked her enough to put in some effort.

The door to the classroom swung open, and the freshmen left the classroom in a slow trickle of familiar faces. Some of them waved at him as they passed, some of them high-fived. A handful of them almost knocked him over with their hugs. He squeezed Alexa in a bear hug and let her rant angrily to him for a few seconds while Clyde gave her a consoling pat and sent Lance a look as if it say, _"See what we go through?"_

One of the last students to leave was a girl with pale skin, sandy hair, and the exact same eyes as Kayla Parker. She was walking slowly, hands hovering around a math textbook she was balancing on her head. "Hello, Alexa's brother," she greeted coolly, her focus rapt on the book she was keeping on her head.

"You know, you can just call me Lance."

The math book fell off her head. It landed right into her arms, as if she fully expected it to fall that way. "I know," she answered, and said nothing more.

Alexa elbowed her. "Mandy, be nice."

Mandy rolled her eyes. He wondered when the last time he ever rolled his eyes like that was. Probably when he was, like, five years old.

From down the hall, he heard a voice calling out. "Heeey! Come on! We're gonna be late!"

The two girls quickly hastened their pace. Alexa punched his shoulder in farewell, Clyde waved, and Mandy… just left. Which, of course, made Lance just. So, _so_ happy.

He had no idea why Mandy wasn't fond of him, but it sure was fun to act like she didn't.

"Bye, bestie!" he called out, "Don't miss my snapchat story! It was made just for you, _bestie!"_ Then, he kissed his palm and blew across it towards her.

He must've been born a really blessed child, because Mandy chose to turn around right when he did that. The look on her face when she caught him with his lips puckered above his open palm, blowing air into the hallway, was baffled concern.

She turned around and elbowed Alexa, saying something. Then, the two girls giggled madly. Beside them, Clyde looked utterly lost.

"Ew, Lance, are you flirting with freshmen?"

Lance whirled around with the biggest smile on his face. "Pidge!" He reached forward and wrapped his arms around her tiny body. "Ohhhh, I missed you sooo much!" he cried, picking her up from the ground.

Pidge choked. "Lance," she wheezed out, "I can't breathe."

Lance rocked her back and forth in the middle of the hall. "Mmmm, yep! That's my point! Then you can't continue with your train of thought!"

Pidge made a noise somewhere between a wheezing gasp and a guffaw. "Lance, no."

"Lance, _yes."_

"Lance, _stop,"_ said a voice he kind of didn't want to hear but also kind of _did,_ because having Nyma talk to him almost made the ouchie that Mandy gave his heart go away. "Some of us just wanna get through the halls. You know, you're _really_ annoying when you're so extra, right?"

Lance, still holding Pidge in a tight embrace, leaned one shoulder against the wall and gave her a flirty grin. "You know, you're _really_ cute when you're annoyed, right?"

Pidge pushed against his chest. "Game over," she griped, breaking out of his hold, "for actually using that terrible line."

Lance threw his arms out. "What? It's a classic! Chicks dig the classics. Right, babe?" Lance winked and shot finger guns at a passing brunette from the senior cohort. She and her friend giggled as they passed by. "See? What'd I tell ya."

His lady friends were not amused. "Ugh." "You're _such_ a loser."

It was to this that Mrs. Arroyo finally stepped out into the hall. The woman was already in her sixties, but she didn't look a day over forty. Mamá said it was probably because she was always smiling — a happy woman had an immortal soul, she'd said.

With that in mind, Lance smiled himself, ready to greet his all-time favorite teacher, when—

"PATTY!" screamed Mrs. Arroyo, making Lance freeze in shock. Beside him, Pidge yelped loudly and Nyma grabbed his arm with an iron-like grip.

At their reactions, Mrs. Arroyo gave them all an apologetic look. "Hey, kids! Sorry about that, I didn't mean to scare the bejeezus out of you."

"Uh," said Pidge, the only one out of the three who said anything because Lance had a shocked smile he couldn't unfreeze and Nyma was practicing her hand at being a living statue.

Mrs. Arroyo turned back to the hall. "PATTY!" There was nothing but the eyes of the crowd on Mrs. Arroyo. She tried again. _"PATRICIA!"_

From across the hallway, a door opened and a woman about his Constanza's age emerged from a dark classroom, eyes wide with shock and hair sticking out every which way. She looked like she'd just woken up. "Elena?! What— What the—"

"I have to pee," Mrs. Arroyo said, already leaving her classroom and waving at the students giggling at their teachers making a scene in the hall. "Watch my class for me, please? Bye!"

"But I-I don't teach seniors," the lady panicked, "I don't know any of them!"

"They're my babies, you'll be fine! Just put Nyma in charge!"

At that, Lance gasped, because oh my _god,_ Nyma was _always_ in charge? When was it someone else's turn?

"W-What if they don't—"

But Mrs. Arroyo was already speed-walking down the hall, leaving first-year teacher Patricia Monroe standing awkward in the doorway of her dark and empty classroom. Lance watched Ms. Monroe slowly turn her head towards him, the look of uncertainty turning rapidly into fear.

Lance felt bad for her. This was the teacher the sophomore cohort had outright bullied into tears and made her run out to hallway back in October. Lance was there to see it happen. He'd been on his way back to his chem lab from the bathroom and, before he knew it, he was in the classroom himself with a bunch of other seniors berating the sophomores into submission until the Principal came. According to Rodrigo, that one particular class still wasn't good to her, but they sure weren't as shitty as they could be. Which was insane, because Ms. Monroe was crazy pretty and super nice.

"It's okay, Ms. Monroe," Pidge chirped up, rocking forward on her heels. "If anyone gives you a hard time, just let me know. I'll knock 'em out for you."

Ms. Monroe didn't know how to respond. "O-Oh? Thank… you?"

Pidge gave a sweet smile before stepping into the classroom.

Lance followed suit, though he stopped by the door and said, "Don't worry, half the class gets here late because they're coming from all the way on the other side of school and up four floors. Only upstanding students like us bother to come on time."

"Lance," Nyma sighed, "Transition ended five minutes ago. We're _all_ late."

"Yeah?" He stabbed the air in front of him with a finger. "Well, why's it so crowded out there, then?"

Nyma rolled her eyes at him. (Was this a girl thing?) "It's sixth period, Lance. Lunch block A started already, and this is the main hall. That's why there's still kids around. They're meeting up with friends to go out for lunch."

 _Okay,_ said his brain, _Good play, good play._

 _NOW IT'S MY TURN!_

With a flourish, Lance turned to face Nyma fully and tapped the side of his head. "You can't be late if you didn't hear the late bell."

"Lance, no."

"Lance, _yes."_

* * *

The first person he saw in the classroom was Rhonda Williams, who had beat Pidge to the red beanbag in the center of Mrs. Arroyo's classroom.

Pidge deflated. "Aw, man…"

Rhonda gave a cute smile and flashed a V sign. "I slipped in while Lance was suffocating you."

Lance watched Pidge groan, accepting defeat by trudging towards the desk-chairs. They were arranged in a U all around the classroom, which normally happened only on Fridays. But, hey! Lance and his big mouth wasn't gonna question the Arroyo way.

Rhonda, sitting with her legs tucked underneath, touched her hand to the top of the LED projector to turn off the visuals and moved her attention to Mrs. Arroyo's laptop beside it.

"Um," said Ms. Monroe, who was looking a little hesitant. She pressed her lips together, her index finger pointing gently towards Rhonda and looking back and forth between one small girl to the other. "Is she… supposed to be there…?" she asked Pidge.

Pidge answered before Rhonda could speak. "Yeah, it's fine. Mrs. Arroyo asks us to help set things up all the time. Usually, I'm the one doing it."

"But not today~" Rhonda sing-songed, rubbing her hands together. "Today, _I_ get to sit at the controls."

Pidge slumped over the desk at her chair. "I just want the beanbag."

Lance came to pat her on the back. "There, there," he consoled like the Good Friend he was, "tomorrow's another day."

"Tomorrow, I have gym before AP Lit. I'll never get here on time."

"But _I_ will~" Rhonda sang, a curved smile stretching slowly across her face.

"Wow," said Lance, wrinkling his nose at her. "Can you, like, chill?"

"You know she got no chill, Lance," said Duke Jackson, taking out a small kitchen timer in the shape of a small, red ladybug out of the pocket of his red and white bomber jacket. "How long, Nyma?"

"Five minutes," came the answer without a second of hesitation, as if a senior jock carrying a ladybug kitchen timer was a completely fucking normal, every-day part of high school. And the craziest thing about that? It _was_ normal. At least, it was in Mrs. Arroyo's class.

If there was one thing he liked about being in this class, it was the fact that she trusted them to manage the little things in class. Like the timer. The projectors. Her personal laptop. Her secret stash of candy. Sure, there were some kids that stepped out of line here and there, but they got what was coming to them sooner or later — if not by Arroyo herself or administration, then definitely by the rest of the class. They were trusted in this classroom, regardless of who you were or what story or rep you brought with you. If you proved yourself trustworthy, you were gonna be trusted and that was that, no questions asked, and nobody was gonna let anybody mess that up.

For that reason alone, kids felt safe in her room. And, because they felt safe, they liked being in here. But that wasn't the only reason. There were a million other reasons why they liked being in here.

Her room was always well lit, but she wasn't opposed to turning them off when the class asked for it. The only time she didn't budge on the lights was whenever they had socratic seminars, or when there was Serious Reading to get done. And boy, was there a lot of reading in this class. They were lucky she always gave it out a week in advance, along with a tentative schedule outlining what parts of the reading were due and when. There were even "Focus Questions" (oooh, fancy) for each part of the reading so you could "read with purpose" and "empower yourself" with your thinking. Yay. And the great part of this was that the questions were actually some pretty damn good ones that sometimes made your hea because of how fucking _mindblowing_ they could be. And all that hype you got from the questions alone was enough to get you to actually read and come to class and not be a wallflower and open your mouth for once.

In other words, she ran her class like they were already in college. And sometimes, that scared people. It sure as hell scared him. In fact, the first time he heard about this class, he was like—

 _"Yeah, no thanks. I don't like torturing myself that much."_

But now? He was all—

 _"Oof! Alas_ — _I am hurt! A plague on both your houses!"_ (5 **)  
** _("Lance, the ball didn't even hit you."  
_ _"Yeah, get off the floor, drama queen.")_

He had no idea Shakespeare was hilarious. It was like Monty Python and SNL had a baby and— Wait, no, that didn't make sense. Shakespeare came first. So…

"What are you talking about?"

"Hm?" Lance turned to the side and saw Nyma giving him a weird look.

Shit, had he been talking out loud again?

"Don't bother with him," said Rhonda, "It's after one, remember? He's a lost cause."

Lance blew hard out of his nostrils. Excuse me? Lost cause?! _You're_ the lost cause, lady! Who even wore rhinestone chokers these days? THIS ISN'T THE EIGHTIES!

Instead of throwing a hissy fit, Lance settled for a frown and a simple, "Hey, I resent that."

Rhonda shrugged with one shoulder, cause she was Too Cool to use both shoulders. "Doesn't matter. It's the truth."

He would've hopped the fuck on that shit to call her out, except a Very Important Person happened to walk into the classroom at that exact moment.

"Hi, Keith," Rhonda chirped with a flirty smile, "Is that a leather jacket? Does that mean you have your bike back?"

Keith walked right past her and took a seat at the back of the room.

Lance bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the insulted look on Rhonda's face. Then he went back to… _Plan B._

For a decent minute or so, seeing Keith made his mind screech to a halt. Because he looked different. He looked… Uh…

Ugh, IDK man, he just looked Different, okay? The guy for some reason had abandoned his shitty croptop jacket for some Edgelord's leather bike jacket—plus black, emo, skin-tight jeans instead of regular-folk blue jeans, probably to be Extra Special and stand out, as if he didn't already stand the fuck out at school. It was ridiculous because everything about Keith's new look should be Too Much, but it was… It was weird. Because it was a nice kind of weird, and 'Keith' + 'Nice' didn't compute in his head, and— _THAT'S_ the word!

Nice.

Keith looked _nice._

Lance waved at Nice Keith. Nice Keith caught the motion and looked over. Then he made a face like he had just been made to sit through an unnecessary tutorial on how to play a game of FUCK YOU, go eat a carnival corndog and choke to death.

He lied. Keith didn't look nice. He looked like shit. Shit Keith. He was now Shit Keith.

Lance dropped his hand and rolled his goddamn fucking eyes with a scowl.

"You okay?" Pidge asked from his right.

"I hate people," was his very honest answer.

"Same."

Beside him, Nyma slowly raised an eyebrow.

Lance groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "What?" he asked, exasperated, "Can't you just hop off for once? Or just not sit next to me next time if I'm pissing you off? Or—"

Someone interrupted him. "Lance."

He froze.

Slowly, he turned around.

Shit Keith was standing in front of him.

…?

Lance watched Shit Keith unzip his jacket and stick his hand inside. _Oh fuck,_ went a small part of his brain as his heart started beating hard in his chest. _Eighties haircut? Leather jacket? Permanent scowl? A fucking motorcycle, and now something in his jacket_? _This guy's a hitman, isn't he? The universe hired a teenage hitman to kill me. Shit, Keith._

Keith took his hand out of his jacket, and with it came a bunch of papers.

…?!

How nice. Death apparently came with a complimentary pamphlet.

The papers were all standard letter-sized sheets, stapled together at the corner and folded in half the short way. So unusual and unexpected and goddamn extra was the way these papers were being handed to him that, for a few seconds, Lance actually had no idea what the fuck Keith was doing sticking these folded pages out in front of his face. What, did he want Lance to kiss them for good luck? Were these death warrants? Were these _his_ death warrants? Oh my god, was Keith really a hitman?

Before Lance could take them, though, Keith dropped them on the desk. "You were right," he just said and stood there for a few more seconds before walking away.

The class was as silent as death. It made him nervous.

 _LET'S SAY SOMETHING STUPID!_ Said the voice in his head.

 _Ho, don't do it,_ he told it.

And he didn't.

Not because he had the sense not to, but because he was curious as fuck and unfolded the papers and laid it flat on the desk and—

It was an old article from the New York Times.

 **NASA'S FIRST AEROSPACE EXPLORER CREW MISSING IN SPACE**

Lance felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as a chill stabbed right through him. Quickly, he glanced at Pidge to his right. She was too busy digging in her black hole of a bag to pay attention to him. Lance breathed out. Then, he carefully brought the papers close to his face and started reading again.

 **NASA'S FIRST AEROSPACE EXPLORER CREW MISSING IN SPACE  
** _Galaxy Alliance Confirms Victoria As Missing Spacecraft. Kerberos Mission Under Investigation. (Dec. 2012)_

 _WASHINGTON, D. C. — The widely celebrated Kerberos Mission comes to a staggering halt as space shuttle Victoria, along with all three of its crew, lost all contact with NASA on Tuesday._

 _The crew, which consisted of mission commander Dr. Samuel Holt, mission specialist Matthew Holt, and aerospace pilot, Akira Kogane, had spent approximately four weeks en route to—_

Wait a minute, did he just— Did he— …What the _fuck?_ What the _fuck_ did he just read?

 _—and aerospace pilot, Akira Kogane—_

He stopped breathing.

Keith.

Keith _Kogane._

…Shit, Keith.

It was like, all of a sudden, someone had just scanned all the pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle into a computer and hit a button to make the pieces start flying into place. Everything suddenly just… made sense. Why Keith was going on the Garrison trip. Why Pidge was helping Keith up after the fight. The fact that some young guy who didn't look anything like Keith showed up to that meeting with the Principal. And that fucking look on Keith's face — like he hated himself for… For what? What was with that look? Why did he look like he hated himself? He wasn't even the one who did anything wrong. Lance was the one being a piece of shit jackass all day long— all week long, according to Keith. So, then, why hate himself? Why?

For a long time, Lance sat in silence, watching Keith keep busy as he wrote in a notebook and flipped through the pages in his copy of Romeo & Juliet. He didn't look up or even seem to realize he was being stared at. And that bugged him. It really did.

He was being shitty, but it really bugged him to know that Keith had no idea he was being stared at. Did he just — not care? Lance would've picked up on somebody looking at him if he was being stared at as hard as he was staring at Keith right now, like, holy fucking shit, talk about invasion of personal space? And peace of mind? Did Keith really not know, or was he just real fucking good at ignoring—

And then, Lance's heart nearly popped right the fuck out of his chest because holy fUCK, Keith was looking at him.

Shitshitshitshitshit—

 _LOL you fucktard,_ the voice in his head said.

 _LOOK BUSY, YOU IDIOT!_ his brain was quick to agree.

Lance shoved the papers into his bag, blindly groped for a spiral notebook, pulled it out, opened it up, grabbed a pen from Nyma's desk—

"Hey!"

"Sorry, I love you, I'll give it back."

—clicked the pen, flipped open his notebook, and—

Wait, this was his AP Chem book.

Lance dug into his bag again.

Multi-Variable Calc.

Hunk's recipe book.

AP Physics.

AP Lit— Oh, fucking _finally._

He really needed to stop getting everything in blue.

He flipped open to a clean page when Pidge whispered to him.

"What was that about?"

Uhhhhhh… ?

Lance was genuinely confused. "What was what, now?"

Pidge narrowed her eyes at him. "The papers? The stares? The… You were freakin' out there a little bit, too."

Lance clicked Nyma's pen and immediately began his work. "Wow, Pidge, quit talking so much. I'm tryna do my work, here?"

Pidge stared at him for a moment before rolling her—

SEE? He knew it! It _was_ a girl thing.

"Is rolling your eyes a girl thing?"

"…What."

"Pidge, don't talk to him," Nyma said, "He's hopeless."

"Well, NYMA," said Lance, flicking her notebook askew with a finger, "at least I'm not a gossiping traitor."

A high-pitched rapid beeping suddenly cut into their conversation. Ms. Monroe looked up in alarm, scanning the room with wary eyes. Everyone else just turned to Duke Jackson, who sat across the room from Lance and held the ladybug timer in the air.

"O-Oh," Mrs. Monroe started uncertainly, "well, I-I guess it's ti—"

"Time!" Duke announced, tossing it in the air and catching it in his hand.

Mrs. Monroe frowned. "Please stop that, you might break it."

Duke jerked a thumb at himself and raised both eyebrows. "Me? I'm the pitcher for this school's baseball team. Nothing leaves my hand without it going exactly where I want it to go."

Ms. Monroe looked like she didn't know what to say but was going to try and fight it anyway.

Nyma jumped into the conversation. "Just listen to her and stop tossing that thing around," she barked. "And Lance—"

 _Fuck._

"Why don't you start off the discussion? I'm sure you've got lots of ideas from our Bell Work." She finished with a smile and a sweet tilt of her head.

 _Damn,_ girl — what he'd ever do to you?

Lance scoffed. "You mad I took your pen so you gonna sell me out now? Calm your tits, suck-up. Mrs. Arroyo isn't even here yet."

Slowly, Nyma arched an eyebrow. Then, she turned away from Lance, stretched her arm out in front of her, and made it do the wave as she made a sound imitating a ringing phone. "Doo-deloo, doo-deloo, doo-deloo." She brought her other hand to the side of her head, her thumb at her ear, her pinky at her mouth, and her other fingers curling into her palm. "Rhonda, you heard that, right? Lance is being disrespectful to me during our literature discourse."

 _"So_ disrespectful," Rhonda agreed, typing exactly what Lance had said earlier with one hand while using the other as a fake phone.

Lance watched as Rhonda somehow got his snark up on the board without typos using only one hand. Behind him Pidge snickered openly. The rest of the class joined, chuckling and laughing quietly to themselves over a juvenile display of idiocy. Even Keith cracked a smile.

Big Whoop. He didn't care. He didn't. He did _not._

Nyma grinned like the Cheshire cat. "C'mon, Lance. Redeem yourself. Or else this stays on the board."

"Alright, damn, quit riding me."

"What was that?" Rhonda looked at her 'phone' with blinking eyes, feigning a bad connection. "Oh, wait." With her other hand, she tucked in her pinky and thumb to make a fist, then pulled her middle finger up. In the doorway, Ms. Monroe gasped. Scattered laughs and giggles trickled through the room. "That's better," she said. "Care to repeat yourself?"

Lance leapt out of his seat and dramatically threw his arms out in Rhonda's direction. "You see this shit?" he shouted at nobody in particular. "This is injustice!"

A few seats down, Duke groaned into his hands. "Lance, bro, you're really draggin' it. Just sit down, already."

 _Don't tell me what ta' do, ya ball-strokin' punk ass bitch,_ said the voice in his head.

 _SIT YOUR PUNK ASS BITCH-SELF DOWN,_ said his brain.

Lance kept his mouth shut and sat his own punk ass down. Not cause he cared about how he was 'dragging it' as Duke said, or because he agreed that he was a punk ass bitch, but because he was in Mrs. Arroyo's room and Mrs. Arroyo didn't need to see him flip out for no reason in her nice classroom.

So, he sat down. It wasn't like it was a big deal, anyway. Duke was right, he _was_ dragging it — on purpose, too. Not because he wanted to be a giant shithead (that was never the intention, _honest)_ but because, truth be told, he was bored. Mrs. Arroyo wasn't here (what the hell was taking her so long?), Ms. Monroe had no clue what she was doing, AP exams were in two months, and Lance didn't really get why Keith had bothered to do his homework, search up that article, give it to him, say, _"You were right,"_ and then just sit down as if all that wasn't weird at all. Like, what the fuck. What did that mean? Did that even mean anything? Were they friends, now? Was that how you made friends? Spend time looking up an article that contained the answers to your mysterious backstory and pass it on? Why even bother? What did it _mean?_

He was thinking of asking Pidge, but when he glanced over he saw her taking a deep breath and leaning back into her seat, like she just avoided a shitstorm of a social fire by a hair's length.

…Okay? Weird, much?

He looked to his left and barely caught Nyma looking like she was pretending she hadn't been giving him a side-eye.

Wow, really?

 _GEE,_ he thought, _HAVING YOUR FRIENDS BELIEVE IN YOU IS! SO! GREAT! IF ONLY HE KNEW WHAT THAT FELT LIKE!_

 _Of course you wouldn't know,_ said the voice in his head, _'cause knowing that would mean you actually have FRIENDS!_

Haha, yeah, nope. Time to stop thinking.

He wasn't sure what to feel about being able to have an entire mental conversation with himself. On the one hand, it meant that the class was quiet, which also meant he wasn't fucking up the class somehow and everyone got to do whatever they needed to do. But on the other hand… He had no idea _what_ he was supposed to do. What the fuck were they supposed to do? What was the assignment? Lance turned to the left to stare at the SMARTBoard at the front of the room.

 _Uhhhh,_ went his brain, trying to unscramble the foreign symbols the people around him called "English."

It was just his luck that Mrs. Arroyo finally stepped into the classroom in that moment. Everyone cheered. Donald Trump resigned. Mike Pence went into hibernation. ISIS went 'lol, jk' and exploded. And the rest of the class outwardly shared their relief.

 _"Oh, thank god."_

 _"Finally!"_

 _"Mrs. Arroyo, what took so long?"_

 _"This class gets so weird without you."_

Mrs. Arroyo waved her hands at them with an apologetic look. "Sorry, kiddos, I had to get security. Someone lit up in the boys' bathroom and I swear, anyone passing by could get high off the fumes by just standing in the hall."

Before anyone could crack a joke, Mrs. Arroyo clapped her hands loudly and looked at each and every one of them with a bright, eager smile. "Well! With the amount of time you've all had, I imagine we're about ready to jump right into the discussion. Shall we get started?"

Mrs. Arroyo took her usual seat at the vertex of the U-shaped arrangement of chairs, and immediately, the class came back together to dive into another discussion of author's craft and connections to literary themes. And whether it was the way Mrs. Arroyo smiled at everyone's eager responses to her questions or the questions themselves, hardly anyone noticed Ms. Monroe sneaking out to go back to her own classroom or Rhonda smiling and nodding and laughing at anything Keith said during their discussion.

Anybody except Lance, of course.

* * *

.

.

.

 **END NOTES**

 **(1)** The high volume of students walking in makes taking attendance a nightmare. Students, upon entering the building, swipe their ID cards in a scanner. The system is programmed to automatically mark you either on time or tardy depending on the time of entry.  
 **(2)** The OSIS number is a 9-digit identification number assigned to any NYC public school student. I have no idea what it stands for. OC stands for "Official Class," which is how your academic records are sorted. S stands for Section, which corresponds to what guidance counselor you are assigned to.  
 **(3)** Ed Week is a publication featuring teacher appreciation articles as well as articles on education policy, academic intervention, parent outreach, etc. One of the more popular annual events is hosted by the Department of Education in NYC, called the Big Apple Awards.  
 **(4)** Lyon High School's colors are blue and gold.  
 **(5)** References to a line in Romeo and Juliet, spoken by Mercutio.


	6. Bona Fide

His sulky, broody, pity-party didn't last long, because of course Lance couldn't keep his mouth shut for more than five minutes at a time. And, of course, the reason just _had_ to be Keith.

"What the hell do you mean 'love at first sight' relationships aren't real?" Lance ignored the way some kids flinched when he spoke for what seemed to be the tenth time already. Yeah, he was loud; and sure, he didn't _have_ to be so loud all the time. But they were seven months into the school year; fucking cut him some slack and get used to it, damn. It wasn't like he was gonna go after them anytime they said something he thought was fucking stupid.

…Most of the time.

"Just because something doesn't last forever doesn't make it 'not real,'" Lance continued. "The attraction was there, it existed, _and_ there was a resulting action — _the relationship._ So, it's real." **(1)**

A lot of his classmates started nodding at this, not just as a sign of agreement but also because they were impressed. Hell, _he_ was impressed — this was the longest he'd been able to stay on topic in a socratic seminar on a Thursday afternoon. Normally, he would've been talking about Beyoncé and dropping memes by now. Instead, he'd been countering claims left and right for a good ten minutes. Probably cause they were talking about teenage relationships, since that almost always led to talking about sex.

"We're not talking about whether or not the experience is real," Keith said. "We're talking about whether the relationship is authentic."

Wow, okay, geez — Hop the fuck off, KEEF. Leave it to the class Know-It-All to keep a soon-to-be-about-sex topic solely on target. They were Starbucks-sipping high school students talking about thirsty hoes in a classroom, not Starbucks-guzzling law students fighting a losing war against ethics. Nothing they did here mattered, so chill.

Technically, Keith _was_ chill. In fact, he was chiller than chill; he was frosty _._ And that pissed Lance off, cause all this frost was nothing but a fucking LIE. This was the kid who jumped over a table to _knock him to the ground,_ for god's sakes! BITCH, WHERE IS YOUR SHITTY ATTITUDE?

Also, get this boy a thesaurus or even a dictionary, because— "If something is _real,"_ Lance growled, "then it's authentic!"

"Nah," Pidge slouched in her seat, "Authenticity isn't the same as being real. It's gotta be legit."

"Okay," Mrs. Arroyo interjected, "Let's define that. Let's set the terms. What makes something authentic? Or, as Katie calls it — legit?"

Surprise, surprise, Keith was the one who got right on that. "Something 'legit' is… something substantial? Like… something that has evidence?" He looked at Mrs. Arroyo for confirmation, who looked to Pidge with a smile.

Pidge nodded eagerly. "Yeah, yeah. _That_. That's good, yeah. C'mon, Lance. Substantiate your belief in love at first feelies. Where's your evidence?"

"Uh," said Lance, because what the fuck, man? Don't put him on the spot like that.

Duke was the one who saved him. "I think," he started, brows furrowing tight, "I think Lance already called his proof. He said something about, like… the experience? Yeah, so… You know, like the experience of being in love and whatever. Even if it's temporary, you still fell in love, right?"

"But you can't say that the experience was authentic," Keith insisted, "If it was authentic, it should've been long-lasting."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" Lance snapped his fingers a few times because _hold on there, buckaroo._ "You never said that something legit meant something that lasted. You just said it had to have proof."

Jennifer Nguyen twirled a strand of bright orange hair as she pursed her lips in thought. "You can use how long the attraction lasted as proof, can't you?"

Lance arched a brow. "Uh, no? I mean, if you hate your mom cause she grounds you out of pettiness, that doesn't mean your love for her suddenly becomes fake, ya know?"

Jennifer's frown turned into a pout. To her right, a girl with a glittering headband patted her hand in comfort.

"I see your point," Pidge said. "But I think what Keith's trying to say is that the fact that the attraction itself can end so abruptly is an indication that it was never quantifiable enough to be considered anything beyond just that—an attraction."

"Right. It's superficial," said Keith, who was totally taking advantage of the fact that half the class was still trying to dissect Pidge's College Textbook Phrasing because they weren't all superhuman genius freaks from the blessed lands of Ivy-League-To-Be's. "Besides, there's no way you can fall in love with somebody after seeing them for the first time. You don't even know them. How can you say that you love someone if you don't know the first thing about them?"

"I didn't know anything about Beyoncé the first time I heard her, but I've loved her ever since," Lance wanted to say, but wisely kept his mouth shut because this was supposed to be a Serious Conversation and his love for Beyoncé had nothing to do with Shakespeare.

Destinee Williams raised her ring-adorned hand before speaking. "I mean… We say stuff like that all the time. We look at something and say, 'Oh, I love that' or hear a song and go, 'I love this song.'"

 _LIKE BEYONCÉ,_ Lance immediately thought while killing himself slowly because oh my _god— thAT WAS MY IDEA!_

"Yeah!" Glittering Headband chimed in. "I love ice cream, but I don't _know_ ice cream. That doesn't mean I don't actually love ice cream."

At that, Lance grinned. _Yeah,_ he cheered mentally, _You tell 'em. You fucking tell 'em._

He wasn't the only one who enjoyed the comment. Mrs. Arroyo laughed, smiling. Other students also laughed, some even raising their hands and saying, _"Yaaas"_ in solidarity.

One of the boys didn't find it as funny and groaned instead. "Mina, we over here talking about relationships with human beings. Not, like… what you wanna put in your mouth."

A bunch of voices started chiming in against him.

 _"PG! Keep it PG!" "She's still got a point." "Yeah, Darrell, the logic's still there." "It's called a metaphor, Darrell."_

Darrell was shaking his head. "Okay, but my man Keith was onto something real deep before we started talking food, or whatever. What he means, is that there's a difference between authentic love and other kinds of love, in that authentic love is the kind that you give to your partner no matter what. But you just ain't gonna give that kinda love if you don't know what your partner is like or who your partner really is, y'know? You just ain't gonna give it."

Mina narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. "So, like… unconditional love…?" She leaned forward to look at Keith and asked, "Are you saying that authentic love is unconditional?"

Keith frowned. "I don't think people are capable of loving unconditionally. But I agree with Darrell. You can't just _authentically_ love just anyone."

"Yeah," Darrell continued, "I mean… Sure, you can love someone the way you love food, or your favorite song, but like… When it comes to 'the one,' you know? Like… that's someone real special right there. You only know if someone's real special if you took the time out your life to get to know them first. It doesn't work if you don't know for sure who they are. You need to know everything about them before you go and call them your one and only."

Here, Lance jumped in because they were missing a VERY IMPORTANT POINT, and he was NOT about to lose another Beyoncé moment again. "Bro, there are people out there who've been happily married for _years_ and still don't know everything about each other. My mom and step-dad practically love each other more than life itself, and they still learn new things about each other every day. So what, suddenly their love doesn't count anymore? Are you saying it's not real?"

Nyma sighed like the exasperated girl she was. "They're talking about the experience that comes out of the relationship. The kind where you learn about your partner in order to _really_ fall in love. _That's_ what we're talking about."

"So am I," he countered, like the equally exasperated Lance he was. "You're honestly telling me you think you're gonna know your partner one-hundred percent before you actually 'fall in love' with them? That's just stupid."

Nyma threw a hand in the air and rolled her eyes. Her fellow Gossip Queen BFF Rhonda arched an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were an expert on love."

"I'm not?" Lance shrugged. "I'm just saying that if you think you need to know everything about someone in order to 'properly love them' or whatever, then, well… I hope you 'authentically' looove being a lifelong learner, 'cause you'll be spending the rest of your life keepin' up with the Kardashians before you get to 'fall in love,' if you know what I mean. Oh, wait, _my_ bad—I meant before you fall in 'authentic' love." He almost took Pidge's eye out when he raised his hands to use airquotes. "Oops. Sorry."

"It's okay," said Pidge, patting Lance on the shoulder. "But going back to what you said — I think this raises another need for clarification, because it sounds like we're wrestling with two kinds of experiences, if I'm not mistaken."

"Absolutely," Mrs. Arroyo chimed in, "And thank you for pointing that out, Katie. When you're in a socratic discussion, it's so important to recognize different nuances of certain words that can come from having a different point of view. Would anyone like to try and tackle differentiating between the two types of experiences mentioned so far? We've been talking about one approach to falling in love compared to the other. What is the difference between the experience of falling in love from what Lance and Co have been saying, compared to the experience of falling in love from what Keith and the others have been saying?"

Jennifer raised a hand before jumping in. "Well, Lance is talking about this experience of… of _being._ Kind of like… living in the moment, right?"

"But together," Lance added, "Living in the moment as a team. Living, learning, and loving," he touched his palms with a sound smack, _"together."_

"So, you're saying that doing something together makes it more authentic than doing something on your own?" Keith suddenly cut in. "That's not always the case, is it? If you go off that logic, then that implies that loving ice cream with a friend would make your experience that much more authentic."

"Ummm, yeah, like… that doesn't really… mesh with me, sorta," Mina says. "'Cause like… love is supposed to come from within, right? And if it comes from within, then, like… the only love that should count towards being authentic is, like… your own?"

Lance narrowed his eyes. "What? That doesn't make any sense. A relationship is two halves of a whole. Or three halves, or— or however many people are in the relationship or whatever. It's everything together that makes a relationship. One person doesn't make a relationship, so your argument's out."

Darrel frowned. "Hold up. We ain't saying one person makes a relationship, we're saying you gotta reflect on your own self in the relationship. Think about where you are with your girl—"

"Your _partner,"_ Pidge suddenly cut in.

"Yeah, your partner. Think about where you are with your partner, how you are with each other and everything. You gotta think about the whole picture before you can say that you feel a real connection."

"So, like…" Mina wrinkled her nose. "What _you_ mean when you say experience is, like… almost like how much you know about each other — as a couple? Kinda like… I think, um, before you say, like, that ice cream is your favorite… you say that because you already know?"

The group fell quiet and stared at Mina. She began to flush a bright shade of red.

Then, Pidge burst out laughing.

Mina scowled, the red blush on her face turning dark. "Don't laugh at me! It makes sense to _me!"_

"Sorry," said Pidge, still laughing, "Sorry. It's just— I get it. I totally get it!"

Nyma stared at Mina through narrowed eyes. Finally, she scoffed. "Well, I don't see how that had anything to do with what we were talking about."

Rhonda tapped a finger to her smiling lips. "Same."

Mina sank into her seat.

"Hey," Pidge snapped, suddenly leaning so far over her desk, Lance swore her chair tipped forward for half a second. And only half a second, because Lance slammed his foot onto the back leg of the chair the instant Pidge half-crawled on the desk to lean forward at Nyma jab a finger in her face. "Mina's got a great point, so lay off, alright?"

Nyma arched a brow. "Oh? Please explain. I'd love to be enlightened."

"Keep in mind," Mrs. Arroyo jumped in enthusiastically, "how different the lenses through which we see the world truly are. What we see and feel through one mindset is drastically different from another. That's why we have conversations. Through conversations, we share a multitude of perspectives. And through that multitude of perspectives, we find new ways to see the world."

Now, it was Nyma who slowly turned red. She crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat with a dainty frown.

Pidge, too, began to lean back into her seat. Which was A Very Good Thing because (a) Lance didn't have to anchor Pidge's chair with his foot and (b) Pidge's hair was finally out of his mouth.

"Bleugh, ugh — Pidge!" Lance spat out stray strands of copper hair from his mouth.

"Sorry. Anyway," Pidge pointed at Mina, "Mina brings up a real good point. Tell 'em, Mina."

Mina squeaked, stuttering badly. "Um, the point— The point? It's, um. The point is, that, like… Ice cream is… What I meant by ice cream being your favorite, I meant, like…" Mina stopped speaking, brows furrowing tight as she took in a deep breath and tried again. "Well, it's like… How do you _know_ that ice cream is your favorite? It's because you had something to compare ice cream to, and it just… came out on top! So, with an authentic experience, it's the same thing! You know it's real because it's not like anything else you'd experienced before! And that means you took the time to understand the experience, right? That means, that, like… it's not love at first sight, it's love at second or third sight!"

Whoa, thought Lance, that was pretty… Deep.

Everyone one else seemed to think that too, because the entire class got quiet and stared at Mina again. But this time, nobody laughed. Especially not Nyma, who was looking rather impressed.

Lance was impressed too, because he thought what Mina said was Deep and he didn't even mention deepthroat—

Fuck.

Fuck, that— That one didn't count.

Duke scratched his neck. "I guess that's the other type of experience we were talking about? The experience that's been experienced?"

"The experience of knowing," Pidge quipped helpfully, "versus the experience of being."

Quiet murmurs rippled through the class, a few nodding their heads in agreement while others looked like they were having some kind of aneurysm.

"Ugh," said one guy in a faded Green Day shirt, "I don't… get it. Lance is saying that doing stuff together, like, learning and growing, is what makes something authentic, and… Darrell and Keith are saying… you need to know first? What do you need to know?"

"Nothing," Lance said with every ounce of assurance in his bones, "because they don't know what they're talking about."

Darrell frowned again. "C'mon, Lance. You always do that. You can't just invalidate somebody else's statement like that. You gotta actually work at it."

Lance rolled his motherfucking eyes because THIS WASN'T SERIOUS, DARRELL. Chill the fuck out, man. "Look, man. All I'm saying is that everything you've been saying doesn't really mean anything when you think about it. Y'all are grabbing for straws, or whatever the expression is. There's no 'experience of knowing' you need in order to fall in love for real. It just happens, and you're there to experience it. The end, case closed, have a good day." Then, he sent a cocky grin Darrell's way. "How's _that_ for working at it?"

Darrell was about to respond when someone else cut him to the chase.

"Things don't _just_ happen," said Keith, "There's an entire world of personal history built up behind every new experience you have."

Lance grinned. "So, like. UST?"

Pidge elbowed him sharply in the side. "Lance!" she hissed.

"What?" he hissed back, sending her a glare. But either Keith didn't catch what he meant, or he was too into hearing the sound of his own voice, because the kid just went on, a surging fervor fueling each word.

"The experience of being you're talking about actually _is_ the experience of knowing. Every experience you've ever had with every person you've met, every relationship you've ever had, from childhood to now, makes up how you see things, how you _experience_ things. So you can't say you fell in love by chance because there _is_ no falling in love by chance.

"All of your experiences make you gravitate towards someone, either by how they look or think or feel, and make you decide whether or not they're worth spending your life with. You use everything you know to figure out whether or not someone's worth it. You still think you can say an authentic love can happen by chance?"

Normally, a rant like that - while, admittedly, impressive and great and all that stuff - meant fire, and not in the _"that's fireee"_ type of way when you see somebody pull some a dope as fuck trick on a skateboard or see a killer outfit on a fresh face. It meant fire in the Targaryen way, cause Lance wasn't about to lose face or not come out on top in this goddamn argument against Keefers here. There was a scathing response already proof-read and cited, written up as he listened to every passionate word that came out of Keith's mouth. But his five-paragraph essay of fire (in _both_ meanings) would never be heard, because the look on Keith's face right now was making all the words jam up inside his mouth like some kind of chewed up wad of spitball ammo.

Lance isn't used to being looked at this way. He's not being looked at funny, or in a nasty way or anything like that. Keith's eyes were intense, but he didn't look angry. He looked… calm. Not like someone who wanted to throw some shit his way to see him dance. He just looked like someone waiting to hear what came next, as if what he had to say actually meant something, even if, in the long run, it really didn't. They were just kids in a classroom, a few minutes away from the end of the day. Nothing they talked about really mattered. They didn't matter. And Lance? He was just one in a class of twenty-seven, less than 5 percent of the class. He didn't matter.

Except, to Keith, he did.

So, Lance did what he normally did when he was suddenly put on the spotlight.

He backed off.

"Alright," he said, shrugging a shoulder, "Moot point, I guess."

Keith, looking somewhat surprised, stared at him for a little while before leaning back in his seat. "Okay," he said, nodding his head, "Fair enough."

"Oooh~" Rhonda turned to Lance. "Are you actually conceding?"

Lance scoffed. "Are you deaf? I said moot point."

Rhonda's eyes gleamed as her grin turned razor sharp. "But you never agree to disagree."

Lance shut himself the fuck up, because he knew from experience that when Rhonda Williams looked at you like that, she was lookin' to fix up a storm. And Lance was already a giant whirlwind by default. He didn't need any of this girl's negativity turning him to a Category 5.

So, he decided to be Mindful. He took a deep breath, ignored her, and said nothing.

LOL, _YOU WISH!_

"Your eyeliner's smudged and your concealer is melting off that giant zit on your chin."

Rhonda raised her pen like it were a knife. The class snickered, but stopped when Rhonda started growling.

That's when Mrs. Arroyo stepped in. Literally.

"Rhonda, put the pen down." She'd gotten out of her chair to hunch over her laptop, placing herself between Rhonda and Lance. As she started rooting through something on her flashdrive, she called to Lance. "Lance, can you get the deck of cards on my table?"

He jumped out of his seat, almost sending the chair crashing to the floor. If it weren't for Nyma, he's pretty sure that would've happened. Luckily, it was only his notebook that flew off his table. And Nyma's pen.

All of which he ignored completely.

Because he was on a cool-down mission and he was gonna take his sweet ass time doing it. Which meant he took ten whole seconds to take the five steps from his seat to Mrs. Arroyo's desk, another ten whole seconds to pretend he didn't see the deck of cards and root through the papers and folders lying around, two seconds to grab the cards, another two seconds to make sure they were playing cards (heeeey, these were the ones Rolo gave her last year for Christmas; the ones with the reindeer on the back), and then another ten whole seconds to walk back to his seat.

And sure, you might think he was being Extra. But really, you didn't want him to be _Extra_ Extra, so shut the fuck up and sit down.

 _SIT THE FUCK DOWN,_ went his brain, _STOP GLARING AT THE UGLY HOE BITCH._

 _Well,_ he told his brain, _She's the one glaring at me like she wanna come over and eat my liver or something._

 _…_

Ew, what? Eat his— Wow. Okay, he needed to chill and quit binge-watching Game of Thrones on the weekends.

Lance sat down.

The board had changed by the time he came back. Instead of the focus questions they'd been discussing, there was a chart with two columns on the board. Card suits lined down the first column, opposite a list of topics and suggested tasks. After a hot minute of scanning the topics, Lance found himself grinning because he didn't know how to answer any of these.

 _RIP, me,_ went his brain.

 _What Would Emilio Do?_ asked the demon-cheater in his head.

 _N. O.,_ went his brain. _Do the work and don't fuck around._

Haha, yeah, okay; you're right, he should do the work. At CollegeTermPapers dot Com, yeaaaaaaahhhhh!

"Lance?"

Shit, had he said that out loud?

"My bad," was his automatic reply, even if he had no idea what his bad was this time around. He turned to the voice that'd said his name; it was Nyma. She was standing in front of him with a frown and a stack of cards laid face-down. "Oh," he said, recognizing what she'd wanted. He quickly took the top card off the stack.

As Nyma moved away, holding the stack of cards out to everyone else down his arc, his chance to make a crack about how this was fate's last attempt at bringing them back together died. And he found that he couldn't care less because the idea of having yet another stupid line blurt out of his mouth just made him feel tired. And he was already exhausted from thinking about all the ways he could royally fuck up on this assignment, because he didn't know how to answer any of these questions and he also apparently couldn't even pay attention long enough to take a single card. What a surprise! What! A! Fucking! Surprise!

"Each suit, as you can see on the board, is matched with one of the focus questions we will discuss in the following weeks. As our year comes to a close, and as the date of our exam approaches, I want us to take the time to expand our skills in socratic discussions instead of writing papers."

A chorus of _"yes!"_ whispered softly through his class; Lance just breathed a sigh of relief because THANK FUCKING GOD, he wasn't gonna fail.

"Each pair will be responsible for facilitating a socratic discussion around the focus question they are assigned. So, just as I have done for you these past few months, you and your partner will be helping the class to break down a key concept or theme from the text. This replaces the typical end-of-year assignment in your core classes, which means that this is worth twice your assessment grade for this semester. Assignment details are posted on Blackboard, as well as a schedule for when each focus question will be discussed, so I expect that you come prepared."

Pidge's hand shot up like a bullet. "To clarify — Our focus question will be a guideline of sorts, correct? We're being graded on how well we can dissect the question and the featured concepts as opposed to how well we answer the question, right?"

"To a certain extent, yes. The file I posted should explain all that and more. Shoot me an email if it's not there."

"Roger that, teach."

"Any other questions?"

"Yeah," said Rhonda, waving a hand, "Can we find our partners now?"

"Alright, then," said Mrs. Arroyo, standing up, "But first, let's move the chairs back into rows. I have to test some freshmen tomorrow."

Most of them got up immediately to help out, others hung back to check out people's cards to find their match. It's probably why the three-minute job of re-setting the room always took five or seven minutes. Lance didn't complain; it stretched out the class and gave them a bit of a break.

Plus, he was looking for his partner.

"King of Hearts, baby, you got one? No? Okay. Yooo Greg, what you got there— Oh, I think Wayne has that one. Good luck with him, bro, he's a bitter kid, that one. HOOOO IS THAT A HEART, HARLAN? Oh. Jack of Hearts. Keep moving, boy, see ya. Also, is your sister still dating Mark or….? Alright, alright, geez, I'm just asking, damn…"

"King of Hearts?" Mina asked, head leaning on Pidge's shoulder as the two of them tried to make their Ace of Spades cards form a roof over a space on Pidge's desk. "I think Darrell has that."

"Nope!" Nyma chirped, waving two King of Spades cards in the air, "He's a Spade and he's mine. Make way for the new power couple!" Nyma tossed her head back and cackled.

Darrell leaned away from her. "Lance, I'll give you twenty to trade with me."

Lance held out an open palm. "Fifty."

"What?! I thought you liked her!"

"Yeah, but like, from a distance."

"Boo, you whore," Nyma scowled, flicking the cards in his face.

Three claps sounded at the front of the room. It was Mrs. Arroyo, standing on a chair and waiting for them to settle down. She smiled once the room got quiet. "Everyone find their other half?"

Lance held his card out. "King of Hearts? Anybody? Lone-ly! I'm so lone-ly! I have nobo-dy—!" **(2)**

"I have it."

He choked on Akon's hit single and almost fucking died. His last words on Earth were almost from a meme jacked right off a song twelve years old, and holy shit was he glad he didn't die like that. God wouldn't play him like that, right? God wouldn't do that to him, God loved him.

Please, somebody, tell him that God loves him.

The world obviously didn't think God cared about him, cause still sitting in his seat like the socially awkward loser that he was, was Keith fucking Kogane, holding a red King of Hearts and looking as dandy as a big, beautiful sunflower on a nice, sunny day in the middle of winter.

Lance turned to Mrs. Arroyo. "Yeah, uh. I'm just gonna take an F this marking period."

"Lance, no."

* * *

.

.

.

 **END NOTES**

 **(1)** The validity of 'love at first sight' relationships is often discussed as a motif or theme in literary works and sometimes in the field of psychology.

 **(2)** Lyrics from Akon's Lonely.


End file.
